THE FACTORY.
'Tis an accursed thing!—
There rests a shade above yon town,
A dark funereal shroud:
'Tis not the tempest hurrying down,
'Tis not a summer cloud.
The smoke that rises on the air
Is as a type and sign;
A shadow flung by the despair
Within those streets of thine.
That smoke shuts out the cheerful day,
The sunset's purple hues,
