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Rh

These are dark times! I have not been alone In my affliction.

Why, we have but this thought Left for our gloomy comfort!—And 'tis well! Aye, let the balance be awhile struck even Between the noble's palace and the hut, Where the worn peasant sickens!—They that bear The humble dead unhonour'd to their homes, Pass now i' th' streets no lordly bridal train, With its exulting music; and the wretch Who on the marble steps of some proud hall Flings himself down to die, in his last need And agony of famine, doth behold No scornful guests, with their long purple robes, To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just! These are the days when pomp is made to feel Its human mould!

Heard you last night the sound Of Saint Jago's bell?—How sullenly From the great tower it peal'd!

Aye, and 'tis said