Verse > Anthologies > > Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. > The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse
Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp.  The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse.  1922.
The Bridge of Sighs
By Thomas Hood (1799–1845)
ONE more Unfortunate,
  Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
  Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,        5
  Lift her with care;
Fashion’d so slenderly,
  Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;        10
Whilst the wave constantly
  Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
  Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;        15
Think of her mournfully,
  Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
  Now is pure womanly.        20
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
  Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her        25
  Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
  One of Eve’s family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
  Oozing so clammily.        30
Loop up her tresses
  Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
  Where was her home?        35
Who was her father?
  Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
  Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one        40
Still, and a nearer one
  Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
  Under the sun!        45
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
  Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly        50
  Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God’s providence
  Seeming estranged.        55
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
  With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,        60
She stood, with amazement,
  Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
  Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,        65
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life’s history,
Glad to death’s mystery,
  Swift to be hurl’d—
Anywhere, anywhere        70
  Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly—
No matter how coldly
  The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it,        75
Picture it—think of it,
  Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
  Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,        80
  Lift her with care;
Fashion’d so slenderly,
  Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,        85
  Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
  Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring        90
  Thro’ muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
  Fix’d on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,        95
Spurr’d by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
  Into her rest.—
Cross her hands humbly        100
As if praying dumbly,
  Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
  Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,        105
  Her sins to her Saviour!

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