Classic Poem

“He's dying!” then shortly they add, “He is dead!”
But never a tear o'er the still form is shed.
And why? It were folly to grieve at his gain,
The poor child who had borne such a life of pain,
And well do they know it, those folks we term “hard,”
As they calmly discuss “the poor little card.”

Yes, dead! Of neglect and starvation he died,
For want of the care which we Christians denied.
“We never refused!” do I hear all around?
No; we only pass heedless where sorrows abound,
Reproaching the poor who lack leisure to weep
O'er the baby who rests in his last sweet sleep.

But wan faces light up as the words pass on—
“He died of starvation,—the baby has gone!”
Bleared eyes grow more fiery, rough tones become loud,
Till it ends in an angry, riotous crowd,
All fiercely demanding redress of their wrongs,
Asserting the right which to England belongs.

There are cries of “A riot!” policemen march out,
And speedily put the insurgents to rout.
The leaders are led to the gaol one by one,
A result of the death of the factory-girl's son;
The police do their duty, receive their reward,
But, ah! can that baby's frail life be restored?

His father? a felon of noted ill-fame;
Yet should the child starve for his parents' bad name?
His mother is only a convict's young wife,
Who once helped her husband to save his weak life.
An “accomplice” finds work so hard to procure;
How great is the struggle to live and endure!

So th' baby was starved, while our guardians stand by
And proclaim that the workhouse is always nigh.
That wife was a mother with fond loving heart,
Who felt that she could not so readily part
With her only child. But, alas! for her grief,
Her babe has now passed beyond earthly relief,

She was willing to toil, and did her work well,
But her wage was a fraud, her workroom a hell;
The girl-wife and mother was honest and brave,
Yet her baby now lies in a starveling's grave;
She carries a grief-stricken heart in her breast,
But her toil must go on without change, without rest.

The sigh of that mother, the wail of her boy,
Shall mingle for ever with anthems of joy.
May they reach every heart, that we all may hear,
From the tradesman's lad to the cynical peer,—
That desolate sigh, and the starving child's moan,
As they blend with the rioters' sullen groan,

Till all, moved by pity and love, are impelled
To stop the oppression and tyranny held
Over workmen by masters, by rich over poor,
To grant bread to the wee hungry babes who implore
By their weak, feeble cries, the succour and aid
Of every true parent our Maker hath made.