The Song of the Factory

Toil from morning till night,Toil at the clattering loom!With never a kindly word to lightThe blank and dusty room!Work, with a breaking heart,And a weary, bursting brain!Work, while the dried-up tear-drops start,Then sink to their bed again,—Oh! heart, and head, and soul, going madWith the hunger-gnawing pain.

Toil for the meagre sakeOf cheating Death of his right!Toil lest the faithful shears of FateSever the warp of life!Dust, and darkness, and gloom,Noise, and bustle, and roar!Cobwebs curtain the dusky room,—Filthiness carpets the floor;While all day long with the ceaseless toilMy heart is growing sore.

Blighting ray young life's morn!Hanging its sky with a shroud,—Never dare I think of a dawnUnhid 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 faceIs holding me ever back!I dare not shiver life's crystal vaseAnd 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 hourAmid the fresh green grass!To smell the balmy wild field flower,And watch the shadows pass,—Just as I used to doEre life a burden seemed,Ere Hope's star faded on my viewAnd the hours with anguish teemed;Alas! alas! of this pent-up lifeMy childhood never dreamed!

Toil for a hard, dry crust,With hand that never lags,—Coining my very soul to dustFor a bed of squalid rags!For a shelter over my head,A rickety, leaking roof,—Where the very swallows with looks of dreadKeep from the eaves aloof,—And the sunbeams hardly deign to weaveTheir golden-fingered woof!

Clang! clang! from the belfry tall,'Tis the welcome evening bell!Cold, weary hearts leap at the call,The call they know so well;To rest!—ah, name misgiven!Rest, with a breaking heart?There is no rest this side of heaven,No rest till the soul depart!Oh, who would live to suffer and bearGrim Poverty's bitter smart?

And it's home to my scanty fare,And home to my hovel drear:—Oh, will God's angels ever careTo hover my dwelling near?I close my eyes to sleep,But there is no rest within!I turn and twist on my hard straw heap,Like a child of crime and sin!—For it's ever ringing in my ears,The Factory's hateful din!