The City Dead-House.

THE CITY DEAD-HOUSE.

BY the City Dead-House, by the gate, As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor, I curious pause—for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead
prostitute brought; Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd—it lies on the damp
brick pavement; The divine woman, her body—I see the Body—I look
on it alone, That house once full of passion and beauty—all else I
notice not; Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet,
nor odors morbific impress me; But the house alone—that wondrous house—that deli-
cate fair house—that ruin! That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwell-
ings ever built! Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure sur-
mounted—or all the old high-spired cathedrals; That little house alone, more than them all—poor, des-
perate house! Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul! Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my
tremulous lips; Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you, Dead house of love; house of madness and sin, crum-
bled! crush'd! House of life—erewhile talking and laughing—but ah,
poor house! dead, even then; Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house—but dead,
dead, dead.