As the sharp strike declares
Swift to its closing wears
One more of those brief interludes from toil
Which leave us still the labour-despot's spoil,
Slaves of long hours and unrelaxing strain,
Unstrengthened and unsolaced, soon again
To tread the round, and lift the lengthening chain;
Stand—till hysteria lays its hideous clutch
On our girl-hearts, or epilepsy's touch
Thrills through tired nerves and palsied brain.