The Brooklet Reciter for Temperance Societies and Bands of Hope

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General Books, May 17, 2012 - 42 pages
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1883 Excerpt: ...lips with firm compression told of power Of calm endurance, that would e'en death outlast. Slight was her form and graceful, though 'twas bent As in habitual pain; a coarse, dark dress, Her small, neat feet obscured, which cased in clogs, Marred not, one single jot, despite their weight. The lightsome beauty of her youthful step. A faded shawl flung o'er her fair bright hair (The only glory of her dark, sad form), Oft hid her weary, downcast face from view. Companionship her looks repelled;--none sought The maiden's love or confidence to win. On this same summer day the whistle gave The usual signal, 'mid the rest she came--And came the last;--was it the oppressive heat That smote her dumb, that blinded those sad eyes, That stole the lingering, failing strength from out Her failing frame P for every step was ta'en In agony and pain. She reached the stair, Clutched the dingy rail, as she hoarsely gasped--"Help me, oh God! oh, help! 'twill soon be o'er!" Thus she gained the loom, and with dying hands, The noisy shuttle guided to and fro. 'Twas strange, 'twas passing strange, but as she stood, While o'er her eyes, a gathering film there crept. Her mind, long bent to crush each rising hope, Flung off its fetters--trampled low in earth Each grovelling thought and every weak lament, And brightly, clearly, gloriously uproeo, Nearing the immortality its due. It girded on a lifetime's strength, and in The glory of that dying hour, it grasped The shattered fragments of her martyred life, And wrought a noble statue, fair, complete. Yet 'twas not of meadows green, nor leafy dells, Nor forest home, the factory maiden dreamed; Nor words of love breathed in her pining ear, To deck her path with one such flower of hope. The lives of some, alas! are barren roads, ...

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