"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime,
Work-work-work-
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work,

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright---
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet--
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THE LADY'S DREAM.

THE lady lay in her bed,

Her couch so warm and soft,

But her sleep was restless and broken still;
For turning often and oft

From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd,
And toss'd her arms aloft.

And gazed on the vacant air, With a look of awe, as if she saw

Some dreadful phantom there

And then in the pillow she buried her face
From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,

Her terror was so extreme;

And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt

Kept a tremulous gleam;

And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried:"Oh me! that awful dream!

E

That

weary, weary walk,

In the churchyard's dismal ground!

And those horrible things, with shady wings,
That came and flitted round,-
Death, death, and nothing but death,
In every sight and sound!

"And oh! those maidens young,

Who wrought in that dreary room,
With figures drooping and spectres thin,
And cheeks without a bloom ;-
And the Voice that cried, 'For the pomp

We haste to an early tomb!

"For the pomp and pleasure of Pride,
We toil like Afric slaves,

And only to earn a home at last,
Where yonder cypress waves;
And then they pointed-I never saw
A ground so full of graves!

"And still the coffins came,

With their sorrowful trains and slow;

Coffin after coffin still,

A sad and sickening show;

From grief exempt, I never had dreamt
Of such a World of Woe!

of pride,

"Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life,
That grieve this earthly ball-
Disease and Hunger, and Pain, and Want,
But now I dreamt of them all!

"For the blind and the cripple were there, And the babe that pined for bread,

And the houseless man, and the widow poor
Who begged-to bury the dead;

The naked, alas, that I might have clad,
The famish'd I might have fed!

"The sorrow I might have soothed,
And the unregarded tears;

For many a thronging shape was there,
From long forgotten years,
Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,
Who rais'd my childish fears!

"Each pleading look, that long ago
I scann'd with a heedless eye,
Each face was gazing as plainly there,
As when I pass'd it by:

Woe, woe for me if the past should be
Thus present when I die!

"No need of sulphureous lake,

No need of fiery coal,

But only that crowd of human kind
Who wanted pity and dole-

In everlasting retrospect—

Will wring my sinful soul!

"Alas! I have walk'd through life
Too heedless where I trod;

Nay, helping to trample my fellow worm,
And fill the burial sod-

Forgetting that even the sparrow falls

Not unmark'd of God!