The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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PRESTON MILLS. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
PRESTON MILLS.
The day was fair, the cannon roar'd,
Cold blew the bracing north,
And Preston's Mills, by thousands, pour'd
Their little captives forth.
Cold blew the bracing north,
And Preston's Mills, by thousands, pour'd
Their little captives forth.
All in their best they paced the street,
All glad that they were free;
And sung a song with voices sweet—
They sung of Liberty!
All glad that they were free;
And sung a song with voices sweet—
They sung of Liberty!
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But from their lips the rose had fled,
Like “death-in-life” they smiled;
And still, as each pass'd by, I said,
Alas! is that a child?
Like “death-in-life” they smiled;
And still, as each pass'd by, I said,
Alas! is that a child?
Flags waved, and men—a ghastly crew—
March'd with them, side by side:
While, hand in hand, and two by two,
They moved—a living tide.
March'd with them, side by side:
While, hand in hand, and two by two,
They moved—a living tide.
Thousands and thousands—all so white!—
With eyes so glazed and dull!
O God! it was indeed a sight
Too sadly beautiful!
With eyes so glazed and dull!
O God! it was indeed a sight
Too sadly beautiful!
And, oh, the pang their voices gave
Refuses to depart!
This is a wailing for the grave!
I whisper'd to my heart.
Refuses to depart!
This is a wailing for the grave!
I whisper'd to my heart.
It was as if, where roses blush'd,
A sudden blasting gale,
O'er fields of bloom had rudely rush'd,
And turn'd the roses pale.
A sudden blasting gale,
O'er fields of bloom had rudely rush'd,
And turn'd the roses pale.
It was as if, in glen and grove,
The wild birds sadly sung;
And every linnet mourn'd its love,
And every thrush its young.
The wild birds sadly sung;
And every linnet mourn'd its love,
And every thrush its young.
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It was as if, in dungeon gloom,
Where chain'd despair reclined,
A sound came from the living tomb,
And hymn'd the passing wind.
Where chain'd despair reclined,
A sound came from the living tomb,
And hymn'd the passing wind.
And while they sang, and though they smiled,
My soul groan'd heavily—
O who would be or have a child?
A mother who would be?
My soul groan'd heavily—
O who would be or have a child?
A mother who would be?
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |