The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
51
SONG.
[They sold the chairs, they took the bed, and went]
They sold the chairs, they took the bed, and went;
A fiend's look after them the husband sent;
His thin wife held him faintly, but in vain;
She saw the alehouse in his scowl of pain.
A fiend's look after them the husband sent;
His thin wife held him faintly, but in vain;
She saw the alehouse in his scowl of pain.
Upon her pregnant womb her hand she laid,
Then stabb'd her living child! and shriek'd, dismay'd—
“Oh, why had I a mother!” wildly said
That saddest mother, gazing on the dead.
Then stabb'd her living child! and shriek'd, dismay'd—
“Oh, why had I a mother!” wildly said
That saddest mother, gazing on the dead.
Slowly she turn'd, and sought the silent room—
Her last-born child's lone dwellingplace and tomb!
Because they could not purchase earth and prayer,
The dear dead boy had long lain coffin'd there!
Her last-born child's lone dwellingplace and tomb!
Because they could not purchase earth and prayer,
The dear dead boy had long lain coffin'd there!
But that boy hath a sister—where is she?
Dying, where none a cherub fall'n may see:—
“Mother! O come!” she sobs, with stifled groan,
In that blest isle, where pity turns to stone.
Dying, where none a cherub fall'n may see:—
“Mother! O come!” she sobs, with stifled groan,
In that blest isle, where pity turns to stone.
Before the judge, the childless stood amazed,
With none to say, “My Lord! the wretch is crazed.”
Crowds saw her perish, but all eyes were dry;
Drunk, in the crowd, her husband saw her die!
With none to say, “My Lord! the wretch is crazed.”
Crowds saw her perish, but all eyes were dry;
Drunk, in the crowd, her husband saw her die!
52
Around the murderer's wrists they lock the chain:
What, tyrant? whom hath Rapine's victim slain?
The widow, hunger-stung and sorrow-bent,
Who ask'd, with tears, her lodger's weekly rent!
What, tyrant? whom hath Rapine's victim slain?
The widow, hunger-stung and sorrow-bent,
Who ask'd, with tears, her lodger's weekly rent!
O Wholesale Dealers in waste, want, and war!
Would that your deeds were written!—and they are!
Written and graved, on minds and hearts oppress'd;
Stamp'd deep, and blood-burnt-in, o'er realms unbless'd!
Would that your deeds were written!—and they are!
Written and graved, on minds and hearts oppress'd;
Stamp'd deep, and blood-burnt-in, o'er realms unbless'd!
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |