WHEN the Curse of Labour was laid on Man, Toil's visage glowered grimly, Alleviations of Fate's stern plan, The softening spirits in rear and van Of Labour's march through our Life's brief span, If seen, were glimpsed but dimly. Weariness followed, and dulness gloomed, On the path of mortals to hunger doomed, And poverty the spirit entombed As in all too premature charnel; The ache of limb and the fret of brain, The slow weak pulse, and the long dull pain, Grew all familiar; the spirit-strain, And the sullen revolt again and again, Of the spiritual and carnal. But though men knew that work and woe Were all too closely neighbour; One curse of Labour they did _not_ know; The black blight coming late and slow, Of the fools who _play_ at Labour! Labour! Faith,'tis no passing play But the pack-horse burden day after day To be grimly gravely lifted. A leaden weight, and a mill-wheel round, By the player at labour but seldom found, Or the amateur--though gifted. Who has not seen a street-child run To turn an organ-handle--for fun-- With gay, erratic vigour? But the grinder who turns at it day by day Finds _Ah che la morte_ no pleasant play,-- _He_ works at it---"like a nigger." So "well-to-do women who crowd the ranks" Of Labour are playing but childish pranks; They are butterfly despoilers Of the honeyed hives of the working bees; They lower the wage and lessen the ease Of the true fate-destined toilers.[A]