THE FACTORY.
233
And worse—'twas but a moment's pain
The heathen altar gave,
But we give years,—our idol, Gain,
Demands a living grave!
How precious is the little one,
Before his mother's sight,
With bright hair dancing in the sun,
And eyes of azure light!
He sleeps as rosy as the south,
For summer days are long;
A prayer upon the little mouth,
Lull'd by his nurse's song.
Love is around him, and his hours
Are innocent and free;
