But I never remember'd the wretched ones That starve for want of food!

"I dress'd as the noble dress,
In cloth of silver and gold,

With silk, and satin, and costly furs,
In many an ample fold;

But I never remember'd the naked limbs
That froze with winter's cold.

"The wounds I might have heal'd!
The human sorrow and smart!

And yet it never was in my soul
To play so ill a part:

But evil is wrought by want of Thought,
As well as want of Heart!"

She clasp'd her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream;
Large, and bitter, and fast they fell,
Remorse was so extreme;

And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame
Would dream the Lady's Dream!

THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK.

AN ALLEGORY.

THERE's a murmur in the air,
A noise in every street-
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of numerous feet-
While round the Workhouse door
The Labouring Classes flock,
For why? the Overseer of the Poor
Is setting the Workhouse Clock.

Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along
Of either sex and various stamp,
Sickly, crippled, or strong,
Walking, limping, creeping
From court, and alley, and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping
Like rivers that seek the main ?
Who does not see them sally
From mill, and garret, and room,
In lane, and court and alley,
From homes in poverty's lowest valley,
Furnished with shuttle and loom-
Poor slaves of Civilization's galley-
And in the road and footways rally,
As if for the Day of Doom?
Some, of hardly human form,
Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil;
Dingy with smoke and dust and oil,
And smirch'd besides with vicious soil,
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.
Father, mother, and careful child,
Looking as if it had never smiled-
The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the ghosts of garments on-
The Weaver, her sallow neighbour,

The grim and sooty Artisan;

Every soul-child, woman, or man,
Who lives or dies-by labour.

Stirred by an overwhelming zeal,
And social impulse, a terrible throng!
Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel,
Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel,
Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel-
Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal-
Gushing, rushing, crushing along,
A very torrent of Man!

Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong,
Grown at last to a hurricane strong,
Stop its course who can!

Stop who can its onward course
And irresistible moral force;
O! vain and idle dream!

For surely as men are all akin,
Whether of fair or sable skin,
According to Nature's scheme,

That Human Movement contains within
A Blood-Power stronger than Steam

Onward, onward, with hasty feet,
They swarm-and westward still-
Masses born to drink and eat,

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,
So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art,
With cotton, and wool, and silk!

At last, before that door
That bears so many a knock

Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor,

Like sheep they huddle and flock—

And would that all the Good and Wise

Could see the Million of hollow eyes,

With a gleam derived from Hope and the skies, Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock!

Oh! that the Parish Powers,
Who regulate Labour's hours,
The daily amount of human trial,
Weariness, pain, and self-denial,
Would turn from the artificial dial

That striketh ten or eleven,

And go, for once, by that older one

That stands in the light of Nature's sun
And takes its time from Heaven!

THE LAY OF THE LABOURER.

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 skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labour's rugged school.

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
The tinder or the match.

To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam;

The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,

A-glowing on the haggard cheek,

And not in the haggard's blaze!

To Him who sends a drought
To parch the fields forlorn,

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
The skies blood-red with wrath.

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—

The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,
The market-team to drive,

Or mend the fence by the cover side,
And leave the game alive.

Ay, only give me work,

And then you need not fear

That I shall snare his worship's hare,

Or kill his grace's deer;

Break into his lordship's house,

To steal the plate so rich;

Or leave the yeoman that had a purse
To welter in a ditch.

Wherever Nature needs,
Wherever Labour calls,

No job I'll shirk of the hardest work,
To shun the workhouse walls;
Where savage laws begrudge

The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow's life,
Before her partner's death.

My only claim is this,

With labour stiff and stark,