THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK. AN ALLEGORY. THERE's a murmur in the air, The noise of numerous feet- Who does not hear the tramp From court, and alley, and lane, From mill, and garret, and room, In lane, and court, and alley, From homes in poverty's lowest valley, Furnished with shuttle and loom Poor slaves of Civilisation's galley And in the road and footways rally, Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil; The Weaver, her sallow neighbor; Stirred by an overwhelming zeal, And social impulse, a terrible throng! Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong, Stop its course who can! Stop who can its onward course And irresistible moral force 90 O! vain and idle dream! For surely as men are all akin, Whether of fair or sable skin, According to Nature's scheme, That Human Movement contains within, A Blood-Power stronger than Steam. Onward, onward, with hasty feet, But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat, At last, before that door That bears so many a knock, Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor, Like sheep they huddle and flockAnd would that all the Good and Wise Could see the Million of hollow eyes, With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies, Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock! Oh! that the Parish Powers, Who regulate Labor's hours, The daily amount of human trial, Weariness, pain, and self-denial, Would turn from the artificial dial That striketh ten or eleven, And go, for once, by that older one That stands in the light of Nature's sun, And takes its time from Heaven! |