Classic Poem

The troop of children that should be at play
Romping through upland fields from morn to eve,
Or studious at the schools, — can we believe
Them slaves, thralls of the soulless looms that slay?
Shall young life have no sun? — no holiday?
But, standing at the shuttle, endless weave,
Straining for others still without reprieve,
Strangers to joy — wearing their prime away?
Now youth's fair flower is trampled as a weed,
And pallid children show the care-worn face, —
That index of a future stunted race:
The whirring shuttles suck the toilers' blood;
Youths left emaciate by the cogs of Greed,
And budding Maidens marred for motherhood.