 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
KING THREAD.
Through the great pile of bricks that, uptowering,
Looks over the river in pride,
And, sombre in aspect, stands glowering
Half sullenly over the tide,
I climb floor by floor, where each rafter
Leans over the hum of the hive,
And the spindles, whose murmurous laughter
Greets the bees as they toil there and thrive.
Looks over the river in pride,
And, sombre in aspect, stands glowering
Half sullenly over the tide,
I climb floor by floor, where each rafter
Leans over the hum of the hive,
And the spindles, whose murmurous laughter
Greets the bees as they toil there and thrive.
Then down through each chamber of labor
Where steady each factory girl,
Unheeding the work of her neighbor,
Keeps her own watch and ward o'er the whirl,
Where the toilers of Adam begotten,
Through the doom of their race earn their bread,
I see how from tortured King Cotton
Arises the monarch, King Thread.
Where steady each factory girl,
Unheeding the work of her neighbor,
Keeps her own watch and ward o'er the whirl,
Where the toilers of Adam begotten,
Through the doom of their race earn their bread,
I see how from tortured King Cotton
Arises the monarch, King Thread.
389
Yellow-robed and impassive they found him,
This Cotton, just burst from his boll;
They caught him, and caged him, and bound him,
And took o'er his being control.
To the picker in triumph they bore him,
Where he made neither murmur nor plaint,
But there, while to fragments they tore him,
Endured like a martyr and saint.
This Cotton, just burst from his boll;
They caught him, and caged him, and bound him,
And took o'er his being control.
To the picker in triumph they bore him,
Where he made neither murmur nor plaint,
But there, while to fragments they tore him,
Endured like a martyr and saint.
From all baser matter they freed him;
They carried him down to the room
Where he'd learn what his fortune decreed him,
If doomed to the needle or loom—
To the lady who sways o'er the many,
To whom kings and emperors bow,
The dame whom we called Spinning Jenny—
They style her the Twisting Frame now.
They carried him down to the room
Where he'd learn what his fortune decreed him,
If doomed to the needle or loom—
To the lady who sways o'er the many,
To whom kings and emperors bow,
The dame whom we called Spinning Jenny—
They style her the Twisting Frame now.
Ah! she is a wonderful creature,
As weird and attractive as sin;
Noted less for her beauty of feature
Than dexterity fibre to spin;
And with her untiring steel fingers,
Beginning at dawn of the day,
She never through lassitude lingers,
But toils in the cheeriest way.
As weird and attractive as sin;
Noted less for her beauty of feature
Than dexterity fibre to spin;
And with her untiring steel fingers,
Beginning at dawn of the day,
She never through lassitude lingers,
But toils in the cheeriest way.
Coquettish, she waits for his coming,
Elbows crooked—“flies,” she calls them—she twirls,
Pirouettes with a low, cheerful humming,
And drags him along in her whirls.
He abandons all useless endeavor,
To the mouth of the whirlpool he goes,
And in straw-colored torrent forever
He flows and he flows and he flows.
Elbows crooked—“flies,” she calls them—she twirls,
Pirouettes with a low, cheerful humming,
And drags him along in her whirls.
He abandons all useless endeavor,
To the mouth of the whirlpool he goes,
And in straw-colored torrent forever
He flows and he flows and he flows.
390
Then tortured and bound, and unable
To resistance oppose to their will,
He is borne to the place where they stable
The docilest mule in the mill;
And there, in a cop on the spindle,
They twist him through all of his length,
Till he feels his circumference dwindle,
But gains by compression new strength.
To resistance oppose to their will,
He is borne to the place where they stable
The docilest mule in the mill;
And there, in a cop on the spindle,
They twist him through all of his length,
Till he feels his circumference dwindle,
But gains by compression new strength.
They double him spite of resisting,
They grip him with fingers of steel;
They give him a fierce triple twisting,
And stretch him around on the reel.
Then they bleach him to rare snowy whiteness
Blow light azure clouds on his head,
And enthrone him in splendor and brightness,
To live and to rule as King Thread.
They grip him with fingers of steel;
They give him a fierce triple twisting,
And stretch him around on the reel.
Then they bleach him to rare snowy whiteness
Blow light azure clouds on his head,
And enthrone him in splendor and brightness,
To live and to rule as King Thread.
Now whether in chamber or palace
Their needles they busily ply,
Low houses in dark narrow alleys,
Or mansions pretentious and high,
The belle who is sewing for pleasure,
The girl who is stitching for bread,
As their time they monotonous measure,
Mourn not for King Cotton as dead.
Their needles they busily ply,
Low houses in dark narrow alleys,
Or mansions pretentious and high,
The belle who is sewing for pleasure,
The girl who is stitching for bread,
As their time they monotonous measure,
Mourn not for King Cotton as dead.
For shattered and carded and tightened,
And twisted by jenny and mule,
And doubled and trebled and whitened,
And bound there and tied to a spool,
He is freed from his first imperfection,
All his baseness is purged by his pain;
He appears, in a grand resurrection,
King Thread, o'er the millions to reign.
And twisted by jenny and mule,
And doubled and trebled and whitened,
And bound there and tied to a spool,
He is freed from his first imperfection,
All his baseness is purged by his pain;
He appears, in a grand resurrection,
King Thread, o'er the millions to reign.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |