Identifier: cu31924105428415 (find matches)
Title: The poetical works of Thomas Hood. With a memoir of the author ..
Year: 1873 (1870s)
Authors: Hood, Thomas, 1799-1845 Houghton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Baron, 1809-1885 Wordsworth Collection
Subjects:
Publisher: New York, James Miller
Contributing Library: Cornell University Library
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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ed roof—and this nakedfloor—A table—a broken chair—And a wall so blank, my shadow IthankFor sometimes falling there ! * Work—work—work !From weary chime to chime. Work— work—work—As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam. Seam, and gusset, and band.Till the heart is sick, and the brain be-numbd. As well as the weary hand. 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 clingAs if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. Oh ! but to breathe the breathOf the cowslip and primrose sweet— W^ith 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 I * Oh ! but for one short hour I 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
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THE FORSAKEN. 77 My tears must stop, for every dropHinders needle and thread T 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 tone could reach theRich!She sang this Song of the Shirt! The foliowini? verae appears in the originalMS. of the <^ Song of the Shirt. Seam, and gusset, and band.Band, and gusset, and seam, Work, work, work,Like the engine that works by steam !A mere machine of iron and wood. That toils for Mammons sake.Without a brain to powder and craze. Or a heart to feel—and break ! THE FORSAKEN. The dead are in their silent graves.And the dew is cold above,And the living weep and sigh.Over dust that once was love. Once I only wept the dead. But now the living cause my pain ; How couldst thou steal me from my tears.To leave me to my tears again ? My Mother rests beneath the sod,—Her rest i

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