Tales of the Factories Respectfully inscribed to Mr. Sadler. By the Authoress of "Ellen Fitzarthur" [etc.] [i.e. by C. A. Bowles] |
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 | Tales of the Factories |  |
5
THE FATHER'S TALE.
“Shall I not visit for these things, saith the Lord?”
Jeremiah, v. 29.
Jeremiah, v. 29.
Come near, my children! till the hour of prayer
Close we, with serious talk, the Sabbath-day;
Come clust'ring round us—round your mother's chair
And mine: Methinks I'd have you so alway,
But so it cannot be. Soon far and wide
In this world must your several paths divide.
Close we, with serious talk, the Sabbath-day;
Come clust'ring round us—round your mother's chair
And mine: Methinks I'd have you so alway,
But so it cannot be. Soon far and wide
In this world must your several paths divide.
But work ye to one end, and with one mind,
Unto His glory, whose redeemed ye are,
Doing his pleasure—rend'ring to your kind
As ye'd receive again. Though sundered far,
Your earthly portions, bright or overcast,
Doubt not ye all shall meet in Heaven at last.
Unto His glory, whose redeemed ye are,
Doing his pleasure—rend'ring to your kind
As ye'd receive again. Though sundered far,
Your earthly portions, bright or overcast,
Doubt not ye all shall meet in Heaven at last.
6
And we—whose treasure and whose trust ye are,
If faithful found at the great reckoning day,
Shall back receive ye, each a living star
Wreathed in one crown of glory. Lo! the way
Is plain before us; let us but endure
Our time appointed, and the end is sure.
If faithful found at the great reckoning day,
Shall back receive ye, each a living star
Wreathed in one crown of glory. Lo! the way
Is plain before us; let us but endure
Our time appointed, and the end is sure.
But oh! beloved ones—full many a snare
And treacherous pitfall in your path doth lie;
Be constant still in watchfulness and prayer,
Search out your secret hearts continually;
Lest, from the root of evil set therein,
Shoot up and flourish some triumphant sin.
And treacherous pitfall in your path doth lie;
Be constant still in watchfulness and prayer,
Search out your secret hearts continually;
Lest, from the root of evil set therein,
Shoot up and flourish some triumphant sin.
At first “a little one,”—and so excused—
Or for a while in virtue's semblance drest—
Till moral sense and feeling, self-abused,
Are lulled at last to deep and deadly rest;
And the whole heart, corrupted to the core,
To work the Tempter's will, is given o'er.
Or for a while in virtue's semblance drest—
Till moral sense and feeling, self-abused,
Are lulled at last to deep and deadly rest;
And the whole heart, corrupted to the core,
To work the Tempter's will, is given o'er.
7
Oh, my dear children! I have seen to-day,
Have heard and seen what made my blood run cold.
There is a moral leprosy—I say
A plague among us—yea, the love of gold;
And rank and foul idolaters we see,
As e'er to ruthless Moloch bent the knee.
Have heard and seen what made my blood run cold.
There is a moral leprosy—I say
A plague among us—yea, the love of gold;
And rank and foul idolaters we see,
As e'er to ruthless Moloch bent the knee.
Ye've read (and shuddered) of those rites accurst,
Of Jaggernaut, the Indian demon god,
Whose maddened votaries struggle to be first,
When yearly his dread chariot comes abroad,
Headlong themselves or tender babes to dash
Before the horrid wheels, as on they crash.
Of Jaggernaut, the Indian demon god,
Whose maddened votaries struggle to be first,
When yearly his dread chariot comes abroad,
Headlong themselves or tender babes to dash
Before the horrid wheels, as on they crash.
Shudd'ring ye've read—but all in pity too
For those poor fanatics have wept the while;
Those blinded ones, who “know not what they do.”
But here in England, in our Christian isle,
Baptized men, for love of cursed gain,
Heap Mammon's altar with their infant slain.
For those poor fanatics have wept the while;
Those blinded ones, who “know not what they do.”
But here in England, in our Christian isle,
Baptized men, for love of cursed gain,
Heap Mammon's altar with their infant slain.
8
Marvel not, children! that ye see me so
In spirit moved for poor humanity—
This morning, as is oft my wont, you know,
Being awake, and stirring with the bee,
I took my way to visit that small mound
Ye wot of, in our parish burying-ground—
In spirit moved for poor humanity—
This morning, as is oft my wont, you know,
Being awake, and stirring with the bee,
I took my way to visit that small mound
Ye wot of, in our parish burying-ground—
That low green grave, where your young sister lies,
Whom late, with many tears, ye saw laid there—
Kiss off those drops from your fond mother's eyes—
Children! ye see how dear to us ye are.
But God, who gave, required his own again—
We wept, and yielded up our little Jane.
Whom late, with many tears, ye saw laid there—
Kiss off those drops from your fond mother's eyes—
Children! ye see how dear to us ye are.
But God, who gave, required his own again—
We wept, and yielded up our little Jane.
But oh! with what an agony of prayer
That one dear lamb selected from our fold
For his good pleasure, he the rest would spare;
Even with like pleadings that may not be told,
This very morn, my precious ones! I prayed
By that green mound beneath the lime-tree's shade.
That one dear lamb selected from our fold
For his good pleasure, he the rest would spare;
Even with like pleadings that may not be told,
This very morn, my precious ones! I prayed
By that green mound beneath the lime-tree's shade.
9
While thus I stood, smote heavy on mine ear
The funeral-bell; and, turning, I espied
An open grave, planked loosely over, near,
That scarce a few short paces did divide
From that of mine own child; and it must be,
Methought, for one as early called as she.
The funeral-bell; and, turning, I espied
An open grave, planked loosely over, near,
That scarce a few short paces did divide
From that of mine own child; and it must be,
Methought, for one as early called as she.
Once—twice again (no more) that sullen sound
Jarred with uneven stroke—and, at the call
Appeared, within the consecrated ground,
No funeral pomp of mourners—plume and pall;
But minister and clerk—and, huddling nigh,
A squalid group—one wretched family.
Jarred with uneven stroke—and, at the call
Appeared, within the consecrated ground,
No funeral pomp of mourners—plume and pall;
But minister and clerk—and, huddling nigh,
A squalid group—one wretched family.
Foremost, a man of wasted frame, and weak,
But tall and bony—bowed, but not by years;
Grizzled his thick black locks—his sallow cheek
Dug out, as if by long corroding tears;
But the deep sunken caves were parch'd and dry,
And glazed and meaningless his hollow eye.
But tall and bony—bowed, but not by years;
Grizzled his thick black locks—his sallow cheek
Dug out, as if by long corroding tears;
But the deep sunken caves were parch'd and dry,
And glazed and meaningless his hollow eye.
10
With him came step for step, with shambling gait,
A pale-faced boy, whose swollen and feeble knees
Bowed out and bent beneath his starveling weight;
They two between them, slung with careless ease,
A little coffin, of the roughest boards
And rudest framing Parish help affords.
A pale-faced boy, whose swollen and feeble knees
Bowed out and bent beneath his starveling weight;
They two between them, slung with careless ease,
A little coffin, of the roughest boards
And rudest framing Parish help affords.
And close behind, with stupid looks agape,
Two sickly, shivering girls, dragged shuffling on
A long-armed, withered creature, like an ape,
From whose bleared eyeballs reason's light was gone;
The idiot gibbered in his senseless glee,
And the man turned—and cursed him bitterly.
Two sickly, shivering girls, dragged shuffling on
A long-armed, withered creature, like an ape,
From whose bleared eyeballs reason's light was gone;
The idiot gibbered in his senseless glee,
And the man turned—and cursed him bitterly.
Alas, my children! But the Judge of all
Tries not the heart by superficial sign;
And when we think his thunderbolt must fall
On some offender, oft the hand divine
Reserves its wrath the guiltier wretch to slay
Who led, or drove him from the righteous way.
Tries not the heart by superficial sign;
And when we think his thunderbolt must fall
On some offender, oft the hand divine
Reserves its wrath the guiltier wretch to slay
Who led, or drove him from the righteous way.
11
Bareheaded, by the grave of mine own dead
I stood, while his, that wretched Man's, was lowered
Into the narrow house. His shaggy head
Sank on his breast; but when the earth was poured
Upon the coffin lid, there stirred in him
No visible change or tremor, face or limb.
I stood, while his, that wretched Man's, was lowered
Into the narrow house. His shaggy head
Sank on his breast; but when the earth was poured
Upon the coffin lid, there stirred in him
No visible change or tremor, face or limb.
And so he stood, while all was finished—
The grave filled in—the daisied turf smooth'd o'er;
Till one cried—“Father!” Then he raised his head
With such a look!—I see it to this hour—
And turning, stampt down hard the new-laid sod,
Mutt'ring with half-clenched teeth, “One's gone— thank God!”
The grave filled in—the daisied turf smooth'd o'er;
Till one cried—“Father!” Then he raised his head
With such a look!—I see it to this hour—
And turning, stampt down hard the new-laid sod,
Mutt'ring with half-clenched teeth, “One's gone— thank God!”
“One's gone!” I echoed, glancing where mine own
Slept in her grave; “and thou can'st tread that spot
So rudely—speak those words in such a tone!
Art thou a father?” “Would that I were not!”
Facing quick round his questioner to scan,
Made answer stern, that miserable Man.
Slept in her grave; “and thou can'st tread that spot
So rudely—speak those words in such a tone!
Art thou a father?” “Would that I were not!”
Facing quick round his questioner to scan,
Made answer stern, that miserable Man.
12
Dark scowling from beneath his close-knit brow,
His gloomy eye full fixt on mine, he said,
“Children may be good gifts to thee, and thou
Mayst love them living, and lament them dead;
But mine are born to slavery and despair—
They're better off in Heaven, or—anywhere!”
His gloomy eye full fixt on mine, he said,
“Children may be good gifts to thee, and thou
Mayst love them living, and lament them dead;
But mine are born to slavery and despair—
They're better off in Heaven, or—anywhere!”
“Ye're of the Fact'ries,” I began, but he
Broke in with horrid laugh—“Aye, who can doubt
That same that sees us? Fact'ry hands are we—
Their mark's upon us—and it don't wear out.”
And dragging forward one poor girl—“Look there!”
He shouted out, and laid her shoulders bare.
Broke in with horrid laugh—“Aye, who can doubt
That same that sees us? Fact'ry hands are we—
Their mark's upon us—and it don't wear out.”
And dragging forward one poor girl—“Look there!”
He shouted out, and laid her shoulders bare.
Tearing the ragged shawl off—“That's fresh done!
They sent her home scored black and blue last night,
To serve as mourning for the little one—
We've no black rags.—And that's a goodly sight
For parents' eyes—that poor demented thing!
He was born straight and healthy—Duke or King
They sent her home scored black and blue last night,
To serve as mourning for the little one—
We've no black rags.—And that's a goodly sight
For parents' eyes—that poor demented thing!
He was born straight and healthy—Duke or King
13
“Might have been proud of him; sharp-witted too—
Aye, 'cutest of 'em all—till his time came
For the curst Mill. They strapped him on to do
Beyond his strength: He fell against a frame
Struck backward—Hurt his spine, the doctors say,
And grew deformed and foolish from that day.
Aye, 'cutest of 'em all—till his time came
For the curst Mill. They strapped him on to do
Beyond his strength: He fell against a frame
Struck backward—Hurt his spine, the doctors say,
And grew deformed and foolish from that day.
“Sir! when your young ones are in bed, asleep,
Mine must slave on—in dust, and steam, and flue:
You may with yours the Lord's day holy keep
In his own house. 'Tis more than I can do,
(Brute as you think me,) from their rest that day,
Poor little wretches! to drag mine away.
Mine must slave on—in dust, and steam, and flue:
You may with yours the Lord's day holy keep
In his own house. 'Tis more than I can do,
(Brute as you think me,) from their rest that day,
Poor little wretches! to drag mine away.
“'Tis somewhere written in the Bible book,
How that Christ loves young children, and for foes
Counts all who wrong them. Think ye, does he look
In suchwise on our little ones, and those
Who rack their tender limbs, their sinews strain,
And coin out their young lives in cursed gain!
How that Christ loves young children, and for foes
Counts all who wrong them. Think ye, does he look
In suchwise on our little ones, and those
Who rack their tender limbs, their sinews strain,
And coin out their young lives in cursed gain!
14
“There came a man to me but yesternight,
Collecting pennies, towards setting free
Poor Negro slaves abroad! I laughed outright.
Master! says I, no need to cross the sea
For your good work; on this side the salt waves,
No lack of Slavery, nor of Infant Slaves.
Collecting pennies, towards setting free
Poor Negro slaves abroad! I laughed outright.
Master! says I, no need to cross the sea
For your good work; on this side the salt waves,
No lack of Slavery, nor of Infant Slaves.
“Your pardon, sir!” he said, with softened tone
Deep lowered; and touched his hat in act to go—
“But if I have forgot myself, you'll own
Wrongs such as mine may make a man do so.
I've loved my children—God he knows how well—
But my heart's hardened—and my thoughts are hell.
Deep lowered; and touched his hat in act to go—
“But if I have forgot myself, you'll own
Wrongs such as mine may make a man do so.
I've loved my children—God he knows how well—
But my heart's hardened—and my thoughts are hell.
“I've been myself, a wretched Fact'ry boy—
Untaught—uncared for—a poor foundling too;
I never felt the feeling you call joy,
Nor leapt, nor laughed, as happy children do;
But I got on, and married like the rest
In reckless folly.—And I say 'tis best
Untaught—uncared for—a poor foundling too;
I never felt the feeling you call joy,
Nor leapt, nor laughed, as happy children do;
But I got on, and married like the rest
In reckless folly.—And I say 'tis best
15
“To die a sinless child, as mine lies there”—
With aching pity, tenderly I strove
To soothe the wretched man in his despair:
I talked to him of seeking strength above—
He shook his head—Of comfort found in prayer—
He groaned out, pointing to the grave, “There! there!”
With aching pity, tenderly I strove
To soothe the wretched man in his despair:
I talked to him of seeking strength above—
He shook his head—Of comfort found in prayer—
He groaned out, pointing to the grave, “There! there!”
But we must seek him in his home distrest,
Where ague-struck his helpless partner lies,
Nursing a wailing baby at her breast,
That drains her life-blood with its scant supplies:
And we must try what Christian love can do,
For the sick soul, and sinking body too.
Where ague-struck his helpless partner lies,
Nursing a wailing baby at her breast,
That drains her life-blood with its scant supplies:
And we must try what Christian love can do,
For the sick soul, and sinking body too.
And oh, my children! fervent be our prayer,
This night before we sleep, and day by day,
That from our country, this good land and fair!
The moral plague-spots may be wiped away.
Ere from her heights, like guilty Tyre, she's hurled,
The wonder and opprobrium of a world.
This night before we sleep, and day by day,
That from our country, this good land and fair!
The moral plague-spots may be wiped away.
Ere from her heights, like guilty Tyre, she's hurled,
The wonder and opprobrium of a world.
16
THE GRANDMOTHER'S TALE.
“Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones.”
St Matthew, xviii. 10.
St Matthew, xviii. 10.
“Up now, my little Margaret!
Up! and we'll go together
With this warm shawl for Granny Jones;
I warrant me her poor old bones
Ache sore this winter weather.
Up! and we'll go together
With this warm shawl for Granny Jones;
I warrant me her poor old bones
Ache sore this winter weather.
“Fold up your work. Impatient child!
Not so—but smooth and neat.
Well, Margaret! well! 'tis almost done,
This task you thought an endless one;
And liberty by labour won
Will now be doubly sweet.”
Not so—but smooth and neat.
Well, Margaret! well! 'tis almost done,
This task you thought an endless one;
And liberty by labour won
Will now be doubly sweet.”
17
“But, dear Mamma, I can't bear work,
Nor tasks, nor sitting still;
I often think how happier far
Than I poor cottage children are,
Who do just what they will.”
Nor tasks, nor sitting still;
I often think how happier far
Than I poor cottage children are,
Who do just what they will.”
“Rash child! pray God forgive that thought,
In ignorance exprest;
You little know what they endure
Too oft, those children of the poor,
Whose lot you think so blest.
In ignorance exprest;
You little know what they endure
Too oft, those children of the poor,
Whose lot you think so blest.
“But come, 'tis almost half past twelve,
And we've no time to lose:
Bid Susan wrap you up to-day
In all your warmest things; and, stay,
Put on your thickest shoes.
And we've no time to lose:
Bid Susan wrap you up to-day
In all your warmest things; and, stay,
Put on your thickest shoes.
“Now for it then—But what a swing
Was that you gave the gate!
Hop! step! and jump! Now do for once.
Though you do long to be a dunce,
Walk by my side sedate—
Was that you gave the gate!
Hop! step! and jump! Now do for once.
Though you do long to be a dunce,
Walk by my side sedate—
18
“Yes—for two minutes—and she's off!
Chasing a wither'd leaf—
My child! must that light happy heart
One day sustain its painful part
Of mortal care and grief?”
Chasing a wither'd leaf—
My child! must that light happy heart
One day sustain its painful part
Of mortal care and grief?”
“What's that at Granny Jones's door?
A man and cart—and see!
They're lifting something out. Oh, dear!
'Tis some one very sick, I fear;
A child—whose can it be?”
A man and cart—and see!
They're lifting something out. Oh, dear!
'Tis some one very sick, I fear;
A child—whose can it be?”
“Why, what's the matter, Granny Jones,
You're making such ado?
Nay, you can't lift that poor sick thing.
Whose is it? wherefore do they bring
The helpless charge to you?”
You're making such ado?
Nay, you can't lift that poor sick thing.
Whose is it? wherefore do they bring
The helpless charge to you?”
“Oh, lady! 'tis my daughter's child:
My poor dead Mary's own.
Four helpless little ones she left
Of every earthly stay bereft
In this hard world alone.
My poor dead Mary's own.
Four helpless little ones she left
Of every earthly stay bereft
In this hard world alone.
19
“Their father gone, and past all work
A poor old creature I—
The parish kept them for a while,
Then sent them many a weary mile,
To some great Factory.
A poor old creature I—
The parish kept them for a while,
Then sent them many a weary mile,
To some great Factory.
“My mind misgave me when they sent
My pretty lambs away;
But I was helpless, poor, and old,
And should be grateful, I was told,
That so well off were they.
My pretty lambs away;
But I was helpless, poor, and old,
And should be grateful, I was told,
That so well off were they.
“Sure of kind usage, wholesome food,
And raiment of the best;
And easy work, and chastening mild,
Unharmful to a tender child,
And time for play and rest.
And raiment of the best;
And easy work, and chastening mild,
Unharmful to a tender child,
And time for play and rest.
“And oh! what most I had at heart—
My babes, they promised me,
Should still be kept on Sabbath-days
Constant to church, and from bad ways,
And evil company.
My babes, they promised me,
Should still be kept on Sabbath-days
Constant to church, and from bad ways,
And evil company.
20
“The eldest, Bell and Jean, were twins,
And they were nine years old;
Jemmy was eight, and this poor lamb,
My little loving Miriam,
But only six, just told.
And they were nine years old;
Jemmy was eight, and this poor lamb,
My little loving Miriam,
But only six, just told.
“Well! well! they took 'em all away—
Six years agone 'twill be
Come next Shrove Tuesday; and since then
They've still kept on, those cruel men!
Falsely deceiving me;
Six years agone 'twill be
Come next Shrove Tuesday; and since then
They've still kept on, those cruel men!
Falsely deceiving me;
“Telling me still from time to time,
When I for tidings prayed,
That all my precious ones were well,
Even after Jem and Isabel
Were in the churchyard laid.
When I for tidings prayed,
That all my precious ones were well,
Even after Jem and Isabel
Were in the churchyard laid.
“Dear heart! to think what cruel wrongs
Those pretty creatures bore!
I know all now; for neighbour Prince
Has been to that bad place, and since
Has told me, o'er and o'er,
Those pretty creatures bore!
I know all now; for neighbour Prince
Has been to that bad place, and since
Has told me, o'er and o'er,
21
“How in those dreadful Factories
The young small things they keep
At work all day, and half the night,
Aye, hours and hours by candle-light;
And if they drop asleep,
The young small things they keep
At work all day, and half the night,
Aye, hours and hours by candle-light;
And if they drop asleep,
“Or wink, or flag, they're strapped and wealed,
And forced to keep on—on—
Till wellnigh sight and sense they lose:
Oh, Christ! that Christian men should use
The babes thou lovest so!
And forced to keep on—on—
Till wellnigh sight and sense they lose:
Oh, Christ! that Christian men should use
The babes thou lovest so!
“Can those poor Blacks they tell about
Be treated half so bad,
Whose taskmasters are called accurst?—
And yet I have not told the worst—
Well, lady! Isabel went first,
And then the little lad.
Be treated half so bad,
Whose taskmasters are called accurst?—
And yet I have not told the worst—
Well, lady! Isabel went first,
And then the little lad.
“No wonder they fell sick and died—
The very breath they drew
With dust and steam was thick and rank;
So they (the tenderest) first sank,
And there remained but two,
The very breath they drew
With dust and steam was thick and rank;
So they (the tenderest) first sank,
And there remained but two,
22
“Miriam and Jeanie—a stout lass
Was she—our bonny Jean!
And held out bravely, till one day,
('Twas but a moment's work they say,
Scarcely a moment's pain,)
Was she—our bonny Jean!
And held out bravely, till one day,
('Twas but a moment's work they say,
Scarcely a moment's pain,)
“By some great shaft her arm was caught—
Only one scream she gave,
And the wheel whirl'd her round and round,
They told me, with a crunching sound—
Oh! to my very grave
Only one scream she gave,
And the wheel whirl'd her round and round,
They told me, with a crunching sound—
Oh! to my very grave
“That sound, and Jeanie's dying scream,
Will go with me.—Dear heart!
Sweet little lady! do you cry
At hearing my sad history?
I've told it but in part.
Will go with me.—Dear heart!
Sweet little lady! do you cry
At hearing my sad history?
I've told it but in part.
“Think, little Miss! for a young child
How hard it must have been—
A child like you, as I may say,
To be kept in the live-long day,
Aye—sixteen mortal hours!—no play,
And scarce a rest between—
How hard it must have been—
A child like you, as I may say,
To be kept in the live-long day,
Aye—sixteen mortal hours!—no play,
And scarce a rest between—
23
“And scarce for meals a scant half hour,
Nor always that—oh! no—
When trade is stirring, they must ply
Their tasks all meal-time, hurriedly
Snatching their morsel cold and dry
While pacing to and fro.
Nor always that—oh! no—
When trade is stirring, they must ply
Their tasks all meal-time, hurriedly
Snatching their morsel cold and dry
While pacing to and fro.
“And then, poor babes! they drop asleep
Without a prayer at night—
Worn fairly out—by scores to lie,
Huddled like brutes in one close stye,
Till waked, by wakeful misery,
Before the earliest light.
Without a prayer at night—
Worn fairly out—by scores to lie,
Huddled like brutes in one close stye,
Till waked, by wakeful misery,
Before the earliest light.
“The inside of God's holy house
Those young ones never see.
Not theirs the sin; but oh! that thought,
When neighbour Prince the tidings brought,
Was worst of all to me.
Those young ones never see.
Not theirs the sin; but oh! that thought,
When neighbour Prince the tidings brought,
Was worst of all to me.
“But still my little Miriam lived,
‘Though going fast,’ he said;
‘Still drove to work—and so will be
Till the last minute, dame!’ says he;
‘Aye, till she drops down dead’—
‘Though going fast,’ he said;
‘Still drove to work—and so will be
Till the last minute, dame!’ says he;
‘Aye, till she drops down dead’—
24
“Oh! that was more than I could bear;
So crawling painfully,
I reached the Parish board, and prayed
They'd fetch me back my little maid,
To die at home with me.
So crawling painfully,
I reached the Parish board, and prayed
They'd fetch me back my little maid,
To die at home with me.
“I prayed them on my bended knees,
But all in vain—till one
('Twas Farmer Williams) took my part,
And said, (God bless his dear kind heart!)
‘We'll have her home, dame! in my cart,
By Tuesday's set of sun.’
But all in vain—till one
('Twas Farmer Williams) took my part,
And said, (God bless his dear kind heart!)
‘We'll have her home, dame! in my cart,
By Tuesday's set of sun.’
“He kept his word. God bless him for't!
My child's come home to die.
Look, Lady! where so pale she's laid—
Dropt off asleep—my merry maid,
Whose rosy cheeks, the folks all said,
It did one good to see.
My child's come home to die.
Look, Lady! where so pale she's laid—
Dropt off asleep—my merry maid,
Whose rosy cheeks, the folks all said,
It did one good to see.
“Look! how her little knees are bowed,
And wasted every limb!
Well, here at least my lamb may rest,
Till taken to her Saviour's breast,
To dwell in Heaven with Him.
And wasted every limb!
Well, here at least my lamb may rest,
Till taken to her Saviour's breast,
To dwell in Heaven with Him.
25
“Hark! how she's moaning in her sleep,
And starts, and wakes—See! see!”
“Was that the bell? Oh, dear! oh, dear!”
“Hush! hush, my babe! no bell you hear—
You'll never, never more go near
That dreadful Factory.”
And starts, and wakes—See! see!”
“Was that the bell? Oh, dear! oh, dear!”
“Hush! hush, my babe! no bell you hear—
You'll never, never more go near
That dreadful Factory.”
“She's fast again. Well, Granny! now
We must be gone. Poor thing!
I'll send you down some strength'ning food,
And cordials that may do her good,
And Marg'ret here shall bring—
We must be gone. Poor thing!
I'll send you down some strength'ning food,
And cordials that may do her good,
And Marg'ret here shall bring—
“What! my wild Marg'ret sobbing still?
Ah! now, dear child, you know
And feel how wrong and foolishly,
In wilful mood you spoke to me
Not quite an hour ago.
Ah! now, dear child, you know
And feel how wrong and foolishly,
In wilful mood you spoke to me
Not quite an hour ago.
“Now do you envy?”—“Oh, Mamma!”
“Well, well, my child! I see
You feel the lesson of this day;
To-night, before your slumbers, pray
It may engraven be
“Well, well, my child! I see
You feel the lesson of this day;
To-night, before your slumbers, pray
It may engraven be
26
“On that young heart; that gratefully
Your lot you may compare
With that of thousands of your kind,
To whom the All-wise Unerring Mind
Hath for their portion here assigned
Privation, pain, and care.
Your lot you may compare
With that of thousands of your kind,
To whom the All-wise Unerring Mind
Hath for their portion here assigned
Privation, pain, and care.
“And now, good Granny! fare ye well—
We'll bring you down to-morrow
Warm flannels, and a little wine,
For that poor babe. The hand Divine
Alone can ease your sorrow.”
We'll bring you down to-morrow
Warm flannels, and a little wine,
For that poor babe. The hand Divine
Alone can ease your sorrow.”
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