My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
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 | My Lyrical Life |  |
II.
Pleasantly rings the Chime that calls to Bridal-hall or Kirk;
But Hell might gloatingly pull for the peal that wakes the babes to work!
“Come, little Children,” the Mill-bell rings, and drowsily they run,
Little old Men and Women, and human worms who have spun
The life of Infancy into silk; and fed, Child, Mother, and Wife,
The Factory's smoke of torment, with the fuel of human life.
O weird white face, and weary bones, and whether they hurry or crawl,
You know them by the Factory-stamp, they wear it one and all.
The Factory-Fiend in a grim hush waits till all are in, and he grins
As he shuts the door on the fair, green world without, and hell begins!
The least faint living rose of health from the childish cheek he strips,
To run the thorn in a Mother's heart: and ever he sternly grips
His sacrifice; with Life's soiled waters turns his 'wildering wheels;
And shouts, till his rank breath thickens the air, and the Child's brain Devil-ward reels.
But Hell might gloatingly pull for the peal that wakes the babes to work!
“Come, little Children,” the Mill-bell rings, and drowsily they run,
Little old Men and Women, and human worms who have spun
The life of Infancy into silk; and fed, Child, Mother, and Wife,
The Factory's smoke of torment, with the fuel of human life.
O weird white face, and weary bones, and whether they hurry or crawl,
You know them by the Factory-stamp, they wear it one and all.
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As he shuts the door on the fair, green world without, and hell begins!
The least faint living rose of health from the childish cheek he strips,
To run the thorn in a Mother's heart: and ever he sternly grips
His sacrifice; with Life's soiled waters turns his 'wildering wheels;
And shouts, till his rank breath thickens the air, and the Child's brain Devil-ward reels.
From Cockcrow until Starlight, very patiently they plod;
A sea of human faces turning sadly up to God.
O wan white winter world that hides no coloured dreams of Spring!
No summer sunshine brightens; no buds blossom; no birds sing.
In at the window Nature looks, and sings, and smiles them forth,
To walk with her, and talk with her, and tread the summering Earth;
And drink the air that cools the heart in pathways dim with dew;
While the miracle of Morning raises glorified life anew.
But they are shut from the heavenly largess; they must stint and moil,
Though Death stare ghastly in their face, and life is endless toil.
Did you mark how vacantly they eyed the land of loveliness,
The Flower of Sleep into their eyes, your heart would ache to press.
The moving glory of the heavens, their pomp and pageantry,
Flame in their shadowed faces, but no soul comes up to see.
They see no Angels lean to them; they stretch no spirit-hand;
Melodious Beauty sings to them; they do not understand.
A sea of human faces turning sadly up to God.
O wan white winter world that hides no coloured dreams of Spring!
No summer sunshine brightens; no buds blossom; no birds sing.
In at the window Nature looks, and sings, and smiles them forth,
To walk with her, and talk with her, and tread the summering Earth;
And drink the air that cools the heart in pathways dim with dew;
While the miracle of Morning raises glorified life anew.
But they are shut from the heavenly largess; they must stint and moil,
Though Death stare ghastly in their face, and life is endless toil.
Did you mark how vacantly they eyed the land of loveliness,
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The moving glory of the heavens, their pomp and pageantry,
Flame in their shadowed faces, but no soul comes up to see.
They see no Angels lean to them; they stretch no spirit-hand;
Melodious Beauty sings to them; they do not understand.
Yet here, where the sweet flower of life may hoard no precious dew,
To feed its heart of greenness, keep the glory of its hue;
Here, where the fingers of Work and Want are writing silent, slow,
Their warrant for the grave on many a Mother's darling's brow;
Here, where the Fiend doth trample out the soul-sparks day by day;
Here, where such seed of God is rotting in the killing clay;
Some Saviour-Seraph walks the waves of sorrow and of sin,
And some poor wrestler doth not sink the wrecking gulfs within;
And aye she rises with her charge in loving arms caressed,
As Morn emerges out of night, her love-star on her breast.
To feed its heart of greenness, keep the glory of its hue;
Here, where the fingers of Work and Want are writing silent, slow,
Their warrant for the grave on many a Mother's darling's brow;
Here, where the Fiend doth trample out the soul-sparks day by day;
Here, where such seed of God is rotting in the killing clay;
Some Saviour-Seraph walks the waves of sorrow and of sin,
And some poor wrestler doth not sink the wrecking gulfs within;
And aye she rises with her charge in loving arms caressed,
As Morn emerges out of night, her love-star on her breast.
| My Lyrical Life | |