Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Stitch, stitch, stitch, and
Work, work, work,
not more in our memories than in our hearts. Let us not forget, moreover, that women,
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
sent their shillings from their scanty earnings all over England to help sculpture the pale marble that covers poor Hood on Kensall Green.
Quite as remarkable as the song I have just dismissed is “The Bridge of Sighs.” It withstood the ponderous assaults of dull-headed and cold-hearted critics when it was builded, and now its somber arches will span the deep river of the popular feeling forever and ever. It is a marvelously tender ode, a rare carol of charity, warbled out fearlessly, where prudish philanthropy would have drawn down its hood and held its breath, lest, perchance, it should seem at the side of a fallen woman. Now may the world lift up its head and exult that sorrow, shame, and despair have found a champion, whose voice over the
One more unfortunate,