An Allegory.

There’s a murmur in the air,

And noise in every street —

The murmur of many tongues,

The noise of numerous feet —

While round the Workhouse door

The Laboring Classes flock,

For why? the Overseer of the Poor

Is setting the Workhouse Clock.

Who does not hear the tramp

Of thousands speeding along

Of either sex and various stamp,

Sickly, cripple, or strong,

Walking, limping, creeping

From court and alley, and lane,

But all in one direction sweeping

Like rivers that seek the main?

Who does not see them sally

From mill, and garret, and room,

In lane, and court and alley,

From homes in poverty’s lowest valley,

Furnished with shuttle and loom —

Poor slaves of Civilization’s galley —

And in the road and footways rally,

As if for the Day of Doom?

Some, of hardly human form,

Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil;

Dingy with smoke and dust and oil,

And smirch’d besides with vicious soil,

Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.

Father, mother, and careful child,

Looking as if it had never smiled —

The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan,

With only the ghosts of garments on —

The Weaver, her sallow neighbor,

The grim and sooty Artisan;

Every soul — child, woman, or man,

Who lives — or dies — by labor.

Stirr’d by an overwhelming zeal,

And social impulse, a terrible throng!

Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel,

Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel,

Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel —

Yea, res............