THOMAS HOOD.

1798-1845.

The Death-Bed.

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low, in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

The Bridge of Sighs.

One more Unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.