'Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep; For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep; Or land, or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones; Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh The world shall see his bones. Oh me--that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again, again, with a dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. 'And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul-- It stands before me now The fearful boy looked up and saw Huge drops upon his brow. That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn. Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 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 She sang the Song of the Shirt. 'Work--work--work While the cock is crowing aloof; And work--work--work Till the stars shine through the roof It 's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work! 'Work--work--work Till the brain begins to swim; Work--work--work Till the eyes are heavy and dim I Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! 'O men with Sisters dear! O men with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch--stitch--stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. But why do I talk of Death? That phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own-- It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh God, that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! 'Work--work--work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread--and rags. That shattered roof--and this naked floor,-- A table,--a broken chair,-- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For 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 benumbed, 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 cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring.