 | The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook |  |
“OUR FATHER.”
“Many of the children told me they always said their prayers at night, and the
prayer they said was ‘Our Father.’ I naturally thought they meant that they
repeated the Lord's Prayer, but I soon found that few of them knew it. They only
repeated the first two words; they knew no more than ‘Our Father.’ These poor
children, after their laborious day's work (nail-making, japanning, screw-making),
lying down to sleep with this simple appeal, seemed to me inexpressibly affecting.”
—Report of the Commissioners on the Employment of Children: Evidence of R.H. Horne,
Town of Wolverhampton.
Pale, struggling blossoms of mankind,
Born only to endure;
White, helpless slaves whom Christians bind;
Sad children of the poor!
Ye walk in rags, ye breathe in dust,
With souls too dead to ask
For aught beyond a scanty crust,
And Labour's grinding task.
Ye ne'er have heard the code of love,
Of Hope's eternal light;
Ye are not led to look above
The clouds of earthly blight;
And yet 'mid Ignorance and Toil,
Your lips, that ne'er have known
The “milk and honey” of the soil,
Sleep not before they own
“Our Father!”
Born only to endure;
White, helpless slaves whom Christians bind;
Sad children of the poor!
Ye walk in rags, ye breathe in dust,
With souls too dead to ask
For aught beyond a scanty crust,
And Labour's grinding task.
Ye ne'er have heard the code of love,
Of Hope's eternal light;
Ye are not led to look above
The clouds of earthly blight;
And yet 'mid Ignorance and Toil,
Your lips, that ne'er have known
The “milk and honey” of the soil,
Sleep not before they own
“Our Father!”
Unheeded workers in the marts
Of England's boasted wealth,
Ye, who may carry ulcered hearts,
If hands but keep their health;
Ye, whose young eyes have never watched
June's roses come and go,
Whose hard-worn fingers ne'er have snatched
The spring-flowers as they blow;
Who slave beneath the summer sun,
With dull and torpid brain,
Ye, who lie down when work is done,
To rise and work again:
Oh! even ye, poor, joyless things;
Rest not, before you pray;
Striving to mount on fettered wings
To Him who hears you say,
“Our Father!”
Of England's boasted wealth,
Ye, who may carry ulcered hearts,
If hands but keep their health;
Ye, whose young eyes have never watched
June's roses come and go,
Whose hard-worn fingers ne'er have snatched
The spring-flowers as they blow;
Who slave beneath the summer sun,
With dull and torpid brain,
Ye, who lie down when work is done,
To rise and work again:
453
Rest not, before you pray;
Striving to mount on fettered wings
To Him who hears you say,
“Our Father!”
Proud, easy tenants of the earth,
Ye who have fairer lots;
Who live with Plenty, Love, and Mirth,
On Fortune's golden spots;
Ye, who but eat, laugh, drink, and sleep,
Who walk 'mid Eden's bloom,
Who know not what it is to weep
In Poverty's cold gloom;
Oh! turn one moment from your way,
And learn what these can teach,
Deign in your rosy path to stay,
And hear the “untaguht” preach.
Then to your homes so bright and fair,
And think it good to pray;
Since the sad children of Despair
Can kneel in thanks and say,
“Our Father!”
Ye who have fairer lots;
Who live with Plenty, Love, and Mirth,
On Fortune's golden spots;
Ye, who but eat, laugh, drink, and sleep,
Who walk 'mid Eden's bloom,
Who know not what it is to weep
In Poverty's cold gloom;
Oh! turn one moment from your way,
And learn what these can teach,
Deign in your rosy path to stay,
And hear the “untaguht” preach.
Then to your homes so bright and fair,
And think it good to pray;
Since the sad children of Despair
Can kneel in thanks and say,
“Our Father!”
| The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook | |