THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! Till the stars shine through the roof! Along with the barbarous Turk, "Work work - work Till the brain begins to swim! Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Band, and gusset, and seam, And sew them on in a dream! "O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers and wives! "But why do I talk of death? O, God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work - work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A crust of bread That shattered roof . A bed of straw, and rags. and this naked floor a broken chair And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "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 henumbed, As well as the weary hand. 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, "O! but to breathe the breath To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal! "O! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, 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; From side to side, she muttered and moaned, And tossed her arms aloft. At last she startled up, 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 broidered quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried: "O, me! that awful dream! "That weary, weary walk, In the church-yard'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, O! 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 of pride, 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 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 the hearts that daily break, That grieve this earthly ball Disease, and Hunger, and Pain, and Want, "For the blind and the cripple were there, - The naked, alas! that I might have clad. The famished I might have fed! |