Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel, Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong, Stop its course who can! Stop who can its onward course And irresistible moral force; For surely as men are all akin, That human movement contains within Onward, onward, with hasty feet, They swarm and westward still- But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat, And famishing down Cornhill! Through the Poultry—but still unfed Christian charity, hang your head! Hungry passing the Street of Bread; Thirsty the Street of Milk; Ragged- beside the Ludgate mart, At last, before that door And would that all the good and wise O! that the parish powers, And go, for once, by that older one THE LAY OF THE LABORER. A SPADE! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe, or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will And here's a ready hand To ply the needful tool, And skilled enough, by lessons rough, To hedge, or dig the ditch, To lop or fell the tree, To lay the swarth on the sultry field, Or plough the stubborn lea; The harvest stack to bind, The wheaten rick to thatch, And never fear in my pouch to find To a flaming barn or farm My fancies never roam; The fire I yearn to kindle and burn And not in the haggard's blaze! To Him who sends a drought The rain to flood the meadows with mud, The blight to blast the corn, To Him I leave to guide The bolt in its crooked path, To strike the miser's rick, and show A spade! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe, or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what will- The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash, The market-team to drive, Or mend the fence by the cover side, Ay, only give me work, And then you need not fear To steal the plate so rich; Or leave the yeoman that had a purse Wherever Nature needs, No job I'll shirk of the hardest work, The pauper babe its breath, And doom a wife to a widow's life, My only claim is this, With labor stiff and stark My bacon, and drop of beer- No parish money, or loaf, No pauper badges for me, A son of the soil by right of toil Entitled to my fee. No alms I ask, give me my task Here are the arm, the leg, The strength, the sinews of a man, Still one of Adam's heirs, Though doomed by chance of birth As honest labor can, A bone and a crust, with a grace to God, And little thanks to man! A spade! a rake! a hoe! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will — Whatever the tool to ply, Here is a willing drudge, With muscle and limb, and woe to him Who does their pay begrudge! Who every weekly score Docks labor's little mite, Bestows on the poor at the temple door, But robbed them over night. As health and morals fail, Shall visit me in the New Bastile FAIR INES. O SAW ye not fair Ines? |