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Exult o shores, and ring o bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck, my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman.

(Vondels hekeldichten; Huygens' Scheepspraat; Burns; Béranger; Van Ryswyck; Victor Hugo; Heine; Whittier; Deroulède; Browning's The lost leader?)

e. Maatschappelijk Leven. 72. The Bridge of Sighs.

One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young and so fair!

Look at her garments, Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instanüy, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mourfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,

She stood with amazement,

Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver, But not the black arch Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled — Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world!