"Better far it were, most surely,
Never more such clouds to see,
Bringing taint o'er nature's beauty,
With their foul obscurity."
Thoughtless fair one! from yon chimney
Floats the golden breath of life;
Stop that current at your pleasure!
Stop! and starve the child--the wife.
Ah! to them each smokeless chimney
Is a signal of despair;
They see hunger, sickness, ruin,
Written in that pure, bright air.
"Mother! mother! see! 'twas truly
Said last week the mill would stop;
Mark yon chimney, nought is going,
There's no smoke from 'out o'th top!'
"Father! father! what's the reason
That the chimneys smokeless stand?
Is it true that all through strangers,
We must starve in our own land?"
Low upon her chair that mother
Droops, and sighs with tearful eye;
At the hearthstone lags the father,
Musing o'er the days gone by.
Days which saw him glad and hearty,
Punctual at his work of love;
When the week's end brought him plenty,
And he thanked the Lord above.
When his wages, earned so justly,
Gave him clothing, home, and food;
When his wife, with fond caresses,
Blessed his heart, so kind and good.
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