"Work,—work,—work,
In the dull December light,
And work,—work,—work,
When the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the Spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweets—
With the sky above my head
And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!
"Oh! for but one short hour,
A respite, however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch!—stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—
Would that its song could reach the rich!—
She sang this "Song of the Shirt."
T. Hood.
CLXXVIII.
LOOK ALOFT.
In the tempest of life, when the waves and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If thy friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.
Should the visions which hope spreads in light to the eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.
Should they who are dearest,—the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom,—in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where affection is ever to bloom.