See, here are our letters, so sweet--so dead.


DEATH IN A LONDON LODGING

'Yes, Sir, she's gone at last--'twas only five minutes ago
We heard her sigh from her corner,--she sat in the kitchen, you know:
We were all just busy on breakfast, John cleaning the boots, and I
Had just gone into the larder--but you could have heard that sigh
Right up in the garret, sir, for it seemed to pass one by
Like a puff of wind--may be 'twas her soul, who knows--
And we all looked up and ran to her--just in time to see her head
Was sinking down on her bosom and "she's gone at last," I said.'

So Mrs. Pownceby, meeting on the stairs
Her second-floor lodger, me, bound citywards,
Told of her sister's death, doing her best
To match her face's colour with the news:
While I in listening made a running gloss
Beneath her speech of all she left unsaid.
As--'in the kitchen,' _rather in the way,_
_Poor thing_; 'busy on breakfast,' _awkward time_,
_Indeed, for one must live and lodgers' meals_,
_You know, must be attended to what comes_--
(Or goes, I added for her) _yes! indeed_.
'"She's gone at last," I said,' _and better perhaps_,
_For what had life for her but suffering?_
_And then, we're only poor, sir, John and I_,
_And she indeed was somewhat of a strain_:
_O! yes, it's for the best for all of us_.