FEBRUARY 26, 1885.

Oh, horrors! is it—is it true What I have read?—if I but knew! O, God, tell me where can I fly, Not to be found when I shall die! They say dead waifs are oft by night Robbed of a decent burial's right; That fiends the friendless bodies bear To crowds of waiting students, where Men tear them up for men to see. O, God, sweet God, do pity me! And I will humbly pray to men: If this should come within the ken Of one who lives a true-loved life, Of one who sister has, or wife; One who loves women for the best That is in them, whose lips have pressed Pure, genuine lips, whom women trust, Whose heart is free from loathsome lust; One whom I would have loved if he Brother or husband were to me— I ask you—nay, I do command With that imperiousness you so Like from a white and shapely hand— I order you—but no, no, no; I am past that—I humbly pray That you will see that I unmarred Have Christian burial. Guard, oh guard, You men with manly hearts and souls, My poor dead body from the ghouls! I strove alway to keep it pure As the soul in me; it has been Type of the thoughts that lived within, The white slave of what shall endure, My spirit's loved though humble mate; Let none its white limbs desecrate!

Weaker—yet weaker—'tis to die This sharp pain bids me. Ah! good-bye, World that I was too weak for—