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Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
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How little appear the commonplace attempts which are continually made to excite pity and horror , by the fall of princes and nobles , by tales of inquisitorial racks and tortures , by bloody murders and grim ghosts , compared with the homely and unpretending power of an owre true tale' as told by a poet :
THE DEATH-FEAST . * The birth-day , or the wedding-day , Let happier mourners keep ; To death my festal vows I pay , And try in vain to weep . Some griefs the strongest soul might shake , And I such grief have had : My brain is hot—but they mistake Who deem that I am mad .
My father died , my mother died , Four orphans poor were we ; My brother John work'd hard , and tried To smile on Jane and me . But work grew scarce , while bread grew dear , And wages lessened too , For Irish hordes were bidders here
Our half-paid work to do . Yet still he strove , with failing breath And sinking cheek , to save Consumptive Jane from early death—Then joined her in the grave . His watery hand in mine I took , And kissed him till he slept : O , still I see his dying- look !
He tried to smile , and wept ! I bought his coffin with my bed , My gown bought earth and prayer ; I pawned my mother ' s ring for bread , I pawned my father ' s chair . My Bible yet remains to sell , And yet unsold shall be ; But language fails my woes to tell— , Even crumbs were scarce with me .
I sold poor Jane ' s gray linnet then , It cost a groat a-year ; I sold John ' s hen , and missed the hen When eggs were selling clear ; For autumn nights seemed wintry cold , While seldom blazed my fire ,
And eight times eight no more I sold When eggs were getting higher . But still 1-glean the moor and heath ; I wash , they say , with skill ; And workhouse bread ne ' er crossed my teeth—I trust it never will .
196 The Poor and their Poetry .