IX.
Ever a toiling child doth make us sad;
'Tis an unnatural and mournful sight,
Because we feel their smiles should be so glad,
Because we know their eyes should be so bright.
What is it, then, when, tasked beyond their might,
They labor all day long for others' gain,—
Nay, trespass on the still and pleasant night,
While uncompleted hours of toil remain?
Poor little Factory Slaves—for You these lines complain!
X.
Beyond all sorrow which the wanderer knows,
Is that these little pent-up wretches feel;
Where the air thick, and close, and stagnant grows,
And the low whirring of the incessant wheel
Dizzies the head, and makes the senses reel:
There, shut forever from the gladdening sky,
Vice premature and Care's corroding seal
Stamp on each sallow cheek their hateful dye,
Line the smooth open brow, and sink the saddened eye.
XI.
For them the fervid summer only brings
A double curse of stifling withering heat;
For them no flowers spring up, no wild bird sings,
No moss-grown walks refresh their weary feet;—
No river's murmuring sound;—no wood-walk, sweet
With many a flower the learned slight and pass;—
Nor meadow, with pale cowslips thickly set
Amid the soft leaves of its tufted grass,—
Lure them a childish stock of treasures to amass.
