And beside a stately bed I’ve stood, Where curtains of silken splendour O’er damask hangings and polish’d wood, Threw a lustre subdued and tender. A dainty cradle stood near its head, But no form was in it sleeping, For the couch of state held the baby dead, And the mother knelt near it weeping: I came beneath a gorgeous dome, With fretted arch and column, And stained glass windows through the gloom That made it very solemn. And by the pulpit stairs I stood The preacher’s words to follow— The sounding-board was my own wood— (That, and the words were hollow): And I’ve wandered to the library— The bookshelves there were mine— Belonging to one of the Ministry; The whole was wondrous fine. (I thought the pay seem’d very high, The work of an easy nature, And wondered if that was the reason why They would not suffer women to try To sit in the Legislature): And I’ve been up a dismal attic flight, Not knowing why there I hasten’d, And I found ’twas the sewing-table bright To which a machine was fasten’d; And a girl was working, so pale and drear, And in such a forlorn condition, That, ghost as I was, I had shed a tear, But I knew that that garret was woman’s sphere, And dressmaking her mission. Last month I came to a table round Which cover’d, to my surprise, is, (Whilst a critical crowd collects around,) With chips of all lengths and sizes: And I knew I’d found the last piece of wood; And back, to my former station, My spirit crossed the Atlantic flood To begin a new transformation. So I laid the glimpses that I had had Of the motley life of this nation Upon this table—or good or bad— For the general delectation. TRANSFORMATION. LITTLE SEAL-SKIN.