I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

I REMEMBER, I remember

The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;-
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily cups,
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof; And work work - work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

From weary chime to chime;
Work-work — work,

As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain is numbed

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitchWould that its tone could reach the Rich!— She sang this "Song of the Shirt."