THE SONG OF THE FACTORY.
Toil from morning till night,
Toil at the clattering loom!
With never a kindly word to light
The blank and dusty room!
Work, with a breaking heart,
And a weary, bursting brain!
Work, while the dried-up tear-drops start,
Then sink to their bed again,—
Oh! heart, and head, and soul, going mad
With the hunger-gnawing pain.
Toil at the clattering loom!
With never a kindly word to light
The blank and dusty room!
Work, with a breaking heart,
And a weary, bursting brain!
Work, while the dried-up tear-drops start,
Then sink to their bed again,—
Oh! heart, and head, and soul, going mad
With the hunger-gnawing pain.
Toil for the meagre sake
Of cheating Death of his right!
Toil lest the faithful shears of Fate
Sever the warp of life!
Dust, and darkness, and gloom,
Noise, and bustle, and roar!
Cobwebs curtain the dusky room,—
Filthiness carpets the floor;
While all day long with the ceaseless toil
My heart is growing sore.
Of cheating Death of his right!
Toil lest the faithful shears of Fate
Sever the warp of life!
Dust, and darkness, and gloom,
Noise, and bustle, and roar!
Cobwebs curtain the dusky room,—
Filthiness carpets the floor;
While all day long with the ceaseless toil
My heart is growing sore.
Blighting ray young life's morn!
Hanging its sky with a shroud,—
Never dare I think of a dawn
Unhid in a dismal cloud!
Why not summon up death?
What is life here below?
What is a faint and flickering breath,
To balance this wearing woe?
Oh,God! oh,God! shall I bear it still?
Or, before Thou call'st me, go?
Hanging its sky with a shroud,—
Never dare I think of a dawn
Unhid in a dismal cloud!
Why not summon up death?
What is life here below?
What is a faint and flickering breath,
To balance this wearing woe?
Oh,God! oh,God! shall I bear it still?
Or, before Thou call'st me, go?
Ah! my sister's pallid face
Is holding me ever back!
I dare not shiver life's crystal vase
And step from the thorny track!
For I hear her moaning cries,—
Her hungry cries for bread,—
And to death and rest I close my eyes,
And ply my shuttle and thread;
For she would suffer, and die of want,
Were I with the blessed dead.
Is holding me ever back!
I dare not shiver life's crystal vase
And step from the thorny track!
For I hear her moaning cries,—
Her hungry cries for bread,—
And to death and rest I close my eyes,
And ply my shuttle and thread;
For she would suffer, and die of want,
Were I with the blessed dead.
Oh for one little hour
Amid the fresh green grass!
To smell the balmy wild field flower,
And watch the shadows pass,—
Just as I used to do
Ere life a burden seemed,
Ere Hope's star faded on my view
And the hours with anguish teemed;
Alas! alas! of this pent-up life
My childhood never dreamed!
Amid the fresh green grass!
To smell the balmy wild field flower,
And watch the shadows pass,—
Just as I used to do
Ere life a burden seemed,
Ere Hope's star faded on my view
And the hours with anguish teemed;
Alas! alas! of this pent-up life
My childhood never dreamed!
Toil for a hard, dry crust,
With hand that never lags,—
Coining my very soul to dust
For a bed of squalid rags!
For a shelter over my head,
A rickety, leaking roof,—
Where the very swallows with looks of dread
Keep from the eaves aloof,—
And the sunbeams hardly deign to weave
Their golden-fingered woof!
With hand that never lags,—
Coining my very soul to dust
For a bed of squalid rags!
For a shelter over my head,
A rickety, leaking roof,—
Where the very swallows with looks of dread
Keep from the eaves aloof,—
And the sunbeams hardly deign to weave
Their golden-fingered woof!
Clang! clang! from the belfry tall,
'Tis the welcome evening bell!
Cold, weary hearts leap at the call,
The call they know so well;
To rest!—ah, name misgiven!
Rest, with a breaking heart?
There is no rest this side of heaven,
No rest till the soul depart!
Oh, who would live to suffer and bear
Grim Poverty's bitter smart?
'Tis the welcome evening bell!
Cold, weary hearts leap at the call,
The call they know so well;
To rest!—ah, name misgiven!
Rest, with a breaking heart?
There is no rest this side of heaven,
No rest till the soul depart!
Oh, who would live to suffer and bear
Grim Poverty's bitter smart?
And it's home to my scanty fare,
And home to my hovel drear:—
Oh, will God's angels ever care
To hover my dwelling near?
I close my eyes to sleep,
But there is no rest within!
I turn and twist on my hard straw heap,
Like a child of crime and sin!—
For it's ever ringing in my ears,
The Factory's hateful din!
And home to my hovel drear:—
Oh, will God's angels ever care
To hover my dwelling near?
I close my eyes to sleep,
But there is no rest within!
I turn and twist on my hard straw heap,
Like a child of crime and sin!—
For it's ever ringing in my ears,
The Factory's hateful din!