THE FACTORY.

THERE rests a shade above yon town, A dark funereal shroud:

'Tis not the tempest hurrying down, 'Tis not a summer cloud.

The smoke that rises on the air
Is as a type and sign;

A shadow flung by the despair

Within those streets of thine.

That smoke shuts out the cheerful day, The sunset's purple hues,

The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray

The morning's pearly dews.

Such is the moral atmosphere

Around thy daily life;

Heavy with care, and pale with fear,
With future tumult rife.

There rises on the morning wind

A low appalling cry,

A thousand children are resigned
To sicken and to die!

We read of Moloch's sacrifice,

We sicken at the name,

And seem to hear the infant cries

And yet we do the same;

424

LANDON'S Poems.

And worse-'twas but a moment's pain
The heathen altar gave,

But we give years,—our idol, Gain,
Demands a living grave!

How precious is the little one,
Before his mother's sight,
With bright hair dancing in the sun,
And eyes of azure light!

He sleeps as rosy as the south
For summer days are long;
A prayer upon the little mouth,
Lulled by his nurse's song.

Love is around him, and his hours
Are innocent and free;
His mind essays its early powers
Beside his mother's knee.

When after-years of trouble come,
Such as await man's prime,
How will he think of that dear home,
And childhood's lovely time!

And such should childhood ever be,
The fairy well, to bring

To life's worn, weary memory
The freshness of its spring.

But here the order is reversed,

And infancy, like age,
Knows of existence but its worst,

One dull and darkened page ;—

Written with tears and stamped with toil,

Crushed from the earliest hour:

Weeds darkening on the bitter soil,
That never knew a flower.

Look on yon child, it droops the head,
Its knees are bowed with pain;
It mutters from its wretched bed,
66 O, let me sleep again!"

Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes
Turn mournfully away;

Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise,

And yet it is not day.

The lantern's lit-she hurries forth,

The spare cloak's scanty fold

Scarce screens her from the snowy north;

The child is pale and cold.

And wearily the little hands

Their task accustomed ply;

While daily, some 'mid those pale bands, Droop, sicken, pine, and die.

Good God! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise!

Man from the cradle-'tis too soon
To earn their daily bread,
And heap the heat and toil of noon
Upon an infant's head.

To labor ere their strength be come,
Or starve,-is such the doom
That makes of many an English home
One long and living tomb?

Is there no pity from above,-
No mercy in those skies;

Hath then the heart of man no love,
To spare such sacrifice?

O, England! though thy tribute waves
Proclaim thee great and free,

While those small children pine like slaves,
There is a curse on thee!

WHEN SHOULD LOVERS BREATHE THEIR VOWS?

WHEN should lovers breathe their vows?

When should ladies hear them? When the dew is on the boughs,

When none else are near them;

When the moon shines cold and pale,

When the birds are sleeping,

When no voice is on the gale,

When the rose is weeping;

When the stars are bright on high

Like hopes in young Love's dreaming,

And glancing round the light clouds fly, Like soft fears to shade their beaming. The fairest smiles are those that live

On the brow by starlight wreathing ; And the lips their richest incense give When the sigh is at midnight breathing. O, softest is the cheek's love-ray

When seen by moonlight hours ; Other roses seek the day,

But blushes are night-flowers.

O, when the moon and stars are bright,
When the dew-drops glisten,

Then their vows should lovers plight,
Then should ladies listen!

THE LOST STAR.

A LIGHT is gone from yonder sky,
A star has left its sphere;
The beautiful-and do they die
In yon bright world as here?
Will that star leave a lonely place,
A darkness on the night ?—

No; few will miss its lovely face,

And none will think heaven less bright!

What wert thou star of?-vanished one
What mystery was thine?