It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst keep
thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is
written by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he
who could weave verse like this."
*Gloppened; amazed, frightened.
So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his
legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem
of Samuel Bamford's* he had picked up somewhere.
*The fine-spirited author of 'Passages in the Life of a Radical'--
a man who illustrates his order, and shows what nobility may be
in a cottage.
God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn,
Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.
God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn,
And meekly her affliction doth endure;
God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands,
All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands
Her sunken eyes are modestly downcast,
Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;
Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed,
And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed;
Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn,
God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn!
God help the poor!
God help the poor! An infant's feeble wail
Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold!
A female crouching there, so deathly pale,
Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold;
Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn;
A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold.
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