Ballads and Lyrical poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Our backs are bow'd with the exceeding weight
Of toil and sorrow; and our pallid faces
Shrivel before their time. Early and late
We labour in our old accustom'd places,
Beside our close and melancholy looms,
Or wither in the coal-seams dark and dreary,
Or breathe sick vapours in o'ercrowded rooms,
Or in the healthier fields dig till we weary,
And grow old men ere we have reach'd our prime,
With scarce a wish, but death, to ask of Time.

II

For it is hard to labour night and day,
With sleep-defrauded eyes and temples aching,
To earn the scanty crust, which fails to stay
The hunger of our little ones, that waking
Weep for their daily bread. 'Tis hard to see
The flow'rets of our household fade in sadness,
In the dank shadow of our misery.
'Tis hard to have no thought of human gladness,
But one engrossing agony for bread,
To haunt us at our toil, and in our bed.

III

And many of us, worn with age and pain—
Old wither'd leaves of men, who, fading, cumber,
Long for that pleasant fosse, six feet by twain,
Impervious to all grief, where we may slumber.
And others of us, more unhappy still,
Youthful, warm-blooded, with a life to cherish,
Offer in vain our sinews and our skill
For starving recompense, and yet must perish
In our young days, and on a fruitful soil,
Because our food is dearer than our toil.

IV

'Tis hard to know that the increase of wealth
Makes us no richer, gives us no reliance;
And that while ease, and luxury, and health
Follow the footsteps of advancing science,
They shower no benefits on us, cast out
From the fair highways of the world, to wander
In dark paths darkly groping still about,
And at each turn condemn'd to rest, and ponder
If living be the only aim of life—
Mere living, purchased by perpetual strife.

V

We rise in grief—in grief lie down again;
And whither to turn for aid in our deep anguish
We know not—yet we feel that we are men,
Born to live out our days—and not to languish

As if we had no souls; as if, stone-blind,
We knew not spring was fair; and that the summer
Ripen'd the fruits of earth with influence kind;
That harvest ought to be a welcome comer
To us and ours; and that in Nature's face,
Were smiles of joy for all the human race.

VI

We ask not much. We have no dread of toil;—
Too happy we, if labour could provide us,
Even though we doubled all our sweat and moil,
Raiment and food—and shelt'ring roofs to hide us
From the damp air, and from the winter's cold;—
If we could see our wives contented round us,
And to our arms our little children fold,
Nor fear that next day's hunger should confound us.
With joys like these, and one sweet day of rest,
We would complain no more, but labour, bless'd.

VII

But these we sigh for all our days in vain,
And find no remedy where'er we seek it;—
Some of us, reckless, and grown mad with pain
And hungry vengeance, have broke loose to wreak it:—
Have made huge bonfires of the hoarded corn,
And died despairing. Some to foreign regions,
Hopeless of this, have sail'd away forlorn,
To find new homes and swear a new allegiance.
But we that stay'd behind had no relief,
No added corn, and no diminish'd grief.

VIII

And rich men kindly urge us to endure,
And they will send us clergymen to bless us;
And lords who play at cricket with the poor,
Think they have cured all evils that oppress us.
And then we think endurance is a crime;
That those who wait for justice never gain it;
And that the multitudes are most sublime
When, rising arm'd, they combat to obtain it,
And dabbling in thick gore, as if 'twere dew,
Seek not alone their rights, but vengeance too.

IX

But these are evil thoughts; for well we know,
From the sad history of all times and places,
That fire, and blood, and social overthrow,
Lead but to harder grinding of our faces
When all is over: so, from strife withdrawn,
We wait in patience through the night of sorrow,
And watch the far-off glimpses of the dawn
That shall assure us of a brighter morrow.
And meanwhile, from the overburden'd sod,
Our cry of anguish rises up to God.