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THE FACTORY.
The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray,
The morning's pearly dews.
Such is the moral atmosphere
Around thy daily life;
Heavy with care, and pale with fear,
With future tumult rife.
There rises on the morning wind
A low appealing cry,
A thousand children are resigned
To sicken and to die!
We read of Moloch's sacrifice,
We sicken at the name,
And seem to hear the infant cries—
And yet we do the same;—
