THE SONG OF THE FACTORY.
57
The tower is left to solitude,—
But oft, on stormy nights,
The awe-struck people say the windows
Blaze with festive lights;
And sometimes on the murky air
Rings out a wailing dirge,
Like the sea's moaning when it bears
Dead men upon its surge.
But oft, on stormy nights,
The awe-struck people say the windows
Blaze with festive lights;
And sometimes on the murky air
Rings out a wailing dirge,
Like the sea's moaning when it bears
Dead men upon its surge.
THE SONG OF THE FACTORY.
Toil from morning till night,
Toil at the clattering loom!
With never a kindly word to light
The 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 mad
With the hunger-gnawing pain.
Toil at the clattering loom!
With never a kindly word to light
The 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 mad
With the hunger-gnawing pain.
Toil for the meagre sake
Of cheating Death of his right!
Toil lest the faithful shears of Fate
Sever the warp of life!
Dust, and darkness, and gloom,
Noise, and bustle, and roar!
Of cheating Death of his right!
Toil lest the faithful shears of Fate
Sever the warp of life!
Dust, and darkness, and gloom,
Noise, and bustle, and roar!
