File:The book of gold, and other poems (1878) (14783826015).jpg

Identifier: bookofgoldotherp00trow (find matches)
Title: The book of gold, and other poems
Year: 1878 (1870s)
Authors: Trowbridge, J. T. (John Townsend), 1827-1916 Charles E. Feinberg Collection of Walt Whitman (Library of Congress) DLC
Subjects:
Publisher: New York : Harper & Bros.
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

View Book Page: Book Viewer
About This Book: Catalog Entry
View All Images: All Images From Book
Click here to view book online to see this illustration in context in a browseable online version of this book.

Text Appearing Before Image:
ing head,Hushing her doll and putting it to bed. The last house falls in ruins; in the box Are packed at last the bright new Christmas blocks; The dolls asleep, the cradle put away; And so the happy children end their play, And in imagination now he sees Two cherubs in white night-gowns on their knees, Mingling their curls before the mothers chair, Lisping with dewy lips their evening prayer. How sweet the picture! Suddenly the past Rises to dash it; and he starts aghast, Seeing his own pale spectral image stand Within a mocking mirror, glass in hand. While thus amid his blessings he must thinkOf perils passed, and shudder at the brinkOf one black gulf, the dark remembrance makesWhat is seem brighter; as he sometimes wakesAt midnight from the hideous dream, to pressMore closely his dear present happiness. 23 THE BOOK OF GOLD. He hurries on with eased and thankful heart;And of a sudden sees before him startFrom a by-street the figure of a child,A wretched girl in rags, who puts up wild
Text Appearing After Image:
HIS OWN GOOD MOTHER FROM HER EASY-CHAIRWATCHES THE BABY MAURICE ON THE FLOOR. Entreating hands, and cries out piteously, Oh, sir! who is there—who will come and seeMy father ? He is very sick ! I fear—My child, I will go with you. Is it near?And, comprehending what she scarce can say,He follows where she quickly leads the way. THE BOOK OF GOLD. 29 Down the by-street where red-eyed rum-shops glare,And with hot breath defile the evening air,Where pines pale Poverty, while Vice and CrimeWith lurid orgies vex the hallowed time;Across a court and upward through the gloomOf creaking stairs, she leads to a cold room,Ill-odored with foul drugs and misery,Where from his couch a man starts up to seeA stranger come. Art thou the Christ? he cries;And in the wan white face and wondrous eyes,Where now the awful fires of fever burn,Is something which recalls to AllanburnOld Richards book-shop and one long-agoWhite Christmas-eve. Art thou the Christ or no? Not I, said Maurice, as amazed he stood,

Note About Images