58
THE SONG OF THE FACTORY.
Cobwebs curtain the dusky room,—
Filthiness carpets the floor;
While all day long with the ceaseless toil
My heart is growing sore.
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,—
Amid the fresh green grass!
To smell the balmy wild field flower,
And watch the shadows pass,—
