'Oh me—that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again, again, with a dizzy brain,
The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.
'And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul--
It stands before me now!'
The fearful boy looked up and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.
That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin's eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT
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
She sang the Song of the Shirt.
'Work--work--work
While the cock is crowing aloof;
And work--work--work
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's O! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save
If this is Christian work!
'Work--work--work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work--work--work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,--
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
'O men with Sisters dear!
O men with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch--stitch--stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
'But why do I talk of Death?
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own--
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh God, that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!