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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE FACTORY; 'TIS AN ACCURSED THING!, by LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: There rests a shade above yon town Last Line: There is a curse on thee! Alternate Author Name(s): L. E. L.; Maclean, Letitia Subject(s): Factories; Industrial Revolution; Pollution | |||
'Tis an accursed thing! 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 appealing cry, A thousand children are resign'd 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; -- 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, Lull'd 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 afteryears 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 darken'd page; -- Written with tears and stamp'd with toil, Crush'd 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 bow'd with pain; It mutters from its wretched bed, "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 accustom'd 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 labour ere their strength be come, Or starve, -- such is 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 a 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO-RIVER LEDGER by KHALED MATTAWA THE DAY THE WINDS by JOSEPHINE MILES WASHING OUR HANDS OF THE REST OF AMERICA by MARVIN BELL ESSAY: DELICATELY by ELENI SIKELIANOS COUNTRY STARS by WILLIAM MEREDITH PERVERSITY by EVA K. ANGLESBURG CALYPSO WATCHING THE OCEAN by LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON |
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