"Work,--work,--work! My labor 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. "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweets-- With 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! "Oh! for but one short hour, 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 My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" 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 song could reach the rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt." T. Hood. CLXXVIII. LOOK ALOFT.