‘Never sorrow for me, Margaret,
When I go from this poor place,
For all I grieve at leaving, dear,
Is your pitiful sweet face.
I shall be glad to find at last
The rest for which I pine;
There are few joys to part with
In such a life as mine;
’T is a weary round of labor,
Full of cares that grind and fret,
For the daily bread we pray for,
And the rest we never get.
Do not sorrow when you lay me
Where purple heath-bells wave;
I’m too weary yet for heaven,
Let me sleep long in my grave.
Let me sleep without the dreams
That often drive me wild
With yearning love and sorrow
For the starving little child,
Whose patient face looked into mine,
(Ah me! how pinched and white!)
Whose wasted arms clung closely
Through all that bitter night,
Whose feeble voice called after me,
Imploring me to stay,
When the cruel mill-bell rang,
And summoned me away.
And all that day I heard the cry,
“Oh, Bessie, come to Will!”
But when I flew to answer it,
The little voice was still.
The patient child had found at last
The ease I could not give:
God will forgive me that I went,—
I worked that he might live.
My heart is drained of all its tears;
I will not try to weep,
For little Will is happier now,
’Neath the warm sod fast asleep.
Pain and Want, like angles veiled,
Showed him enough of woe
To wean his heart from this sad world,
And make him glad to do.
With gentle hands they led him hence,
From this life hard and drear:
Dear God, be kind to little Will,
He had so few joys here.
His blessed rest will soon be mine,
And my weary eyes will see
No tall black chimneys ’gainst the sky,
Dimming its blue to me.
I shall not draw my breath with pain
In the stifling factory rooms,
And my dizzy head will never whirl
To the jangling of the looms.
There ’ll be no lying down at night,
Too tired for any prayer,
No rising up in the dreary dawn
To the old grief and despair.
No bitter thoughts of happier souls,
Who know no want nor sin,
Who stand like lilies in the sun,
And “neither toil nor spin”;
Who never know what weary hands
Weave garments for their wear;
I would to heaven they could read
The histories written there;
What sighs and tears are woven in,
What cheeks pale in the gloom,
What homes are darkened by despair,
What hearts break at the loom.
I shall forget all in my rest,
Nor ask for life again,
When pitying death shall free my soul
From its prison-house of pain.
Let me lie far out on the sunny moor,
Where not a sound is heard,
No human footstep passing by,
Nor voice of singing bird.
I am tired of sound and motion,
And shall never lie at ease,
If I be not very far away
From the noisy factories.
I shall not fear to slumber there,
For the sky ’ll be over head,
The blessed sky I cannot see
Here, lying on my bed.
The fragrant heath will cover me,
Secure from heat and cold,
And the sunshine (seen so seldom)
Will lure flowers from the mould.
Bear me to the same green hollow
Where my little Willie went,
Lay me close beside my darling,
And I shall be content.
Do not sorrow for me, Margaret,
But thank God I am there,
At rest forever and forever,
In the blessed sun and air.
Tread very lightly as you pass
Where the purple heath-bells wave;
I ’m too weary yet for heaven,
Let me sleep long in my grave.’ L. M. A.