CHRISTMAS-EVE AND EASTER-DAY FLORENCE, 1850. CHRISTMAS-EVE. I. OUT of the little chapel I burst, That drove in gusts down the common's centre, Skirting the common, then diverging; Not a few suddenly emerging From the common's self through the paling-gaps, They house in the gravel-pits perhaps, Where the road stops short with its safeguard border Of lamps, as tired of such disorder; But the most turned in yet more abruptly From a certain squalid knot of alleys, Where the town's bad blood once slept corruptly, Which now the little chapel rallies And leads into day again, its priestliness "Mount Zion" with Love-lane at the back of it, As, bound for the hills, her fate averted, And her wicked people made to mind him, Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him. II. Well, from the road, the lanes or the common, Round to the door, and in, the gruff Making my very blood run cold. Little old-faced peaking sister-turned-mother Of the sickly babe she tried to smother Somehow up, with its spotted face, From the cold, on her breast, the one warm place; She too must stop, wring the poor ends dry Of a draggled shawl, and add thereby Her tribute to the door-mat, sopping Already from my own clothes' dropping, Which yet she seemed to grudge I should stand on; Then, stooping down to take off her pattens, She bore them defiantly, in each hand one, Planted together before her breast |