Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Frozen to Death

Frozen to Death.

Frozen to death, so young and fair—
Regular features and large grey eyes,
Flaxen hair,
Braided with care,
Slender body, as cold as ice:
Who knows her name,
Her story, her fame:
Had she a good or an evil fame;
And who in Charity's name's to blame,
That a girl so young yields up her breath,
Frozen to death?

Second Avenue—Fiftieth Street?
These are streets of a Christian city,
Trodden each day by Christian feet,
Of men who have stores of money and meat,
And women whose souls are pure and sweet,
Filled with truth and ruth and pity:
There is a church, with slender spire
Pointing gracefully up to the sky,
Pointing to something better and higher
Than anything open to mortal eye:
All Sabbath time
The sweet bells' chime
Rings from the steeple,
Calling the people
To come to prayer and praise beneath:
On Monday morn,
A young forlorn
And hapless girl yields up her breath,
Frozen to death.

There is a mansion, costly and tall,
Builded for pride and plenty and pleasure—
Hark to the music that bursts from the hall,
And watch the shadows that dance on the wall,
As the dancers dance through their merry measure.
The purple curtains are waved aside—
Peep through the window and see the throng
Of the young who amble and leap and glide,
And the old who watch them with looks of pride;
There are junketing, jollity, jest, and song—
Careless, thoughtless, happy throng;
Careless of right, yet thinking no wrong,
As the gilded hours flash along:
Why should they grieve
On Monday eve,
Though on Monday morn,
Ah! fate forlorn!
A fair young girl gave up her breath,
Frozen to death?