150 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep

The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
"Oh! when shall I see the dusky lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?”

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface played -

"Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light!" And the dim shore echoed for many a night The name of the death-cold maid!

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark
Which carried him off from the shore ;

Far he followed the meteor spark,

The winds were high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned no more.

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true

Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp,

And paddle their white canoe.

THE FACTORY.

BY MISS LANDON.

THERE rests a shade above yon town, A dark funereal shroud :

'T is not the tempest hurrying down, 'T is not a summer cloud.

The smoke that rises on the air
Is as a type and sign;
A shadow flung by the despair

Within those streets of thine.

That smoke shuts out the cheerful day, The sunset's purple hues,

The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray,

The morning's pearly dews.

Such is the mortal atmosphere

Around thy daily life;

Heavy with care, and pale with fear,

With future tumult rife.

There rises on the morning wind

A low appealing cry,

A thousand children are resigned

To sicken and to die!

We read of Moloch's sacrifice,

We sicken at the name,

And seem to hear the infant cries

And yet we do the same;

And worse

-

-'t was but a moment's pain

The heathen altar gave,

But we give years,

our idol, Gain,

Demands a living grave!

How precious is the little one,

Before his mother's sight,

With bright hair dancing in the sun,
And eyes of azure light!

He sleeps as rosy as the south,
For summer days are long;
A prayer upon the little mouth,
Lulled by his nurse's song.

Love is around him, and his hours
Are innocent and free;
His mind essays its early powers

Beside his mother's knee.

When after-years of trouble come,
Such as await man's prime,

How will he think of that dear home,
And childhood's lovely time!

And such should childhood ever be,

The fairy-well, to bring

To life's worn, weary memory,
The freshness of its spring.

But here the order is reversed,
And infancy, like age,

Knows of existence but its worst,
One dull and darkened page;

Written with tears, and stamped with toil,
Crushed from the earliest hour,
Weeds darkening on the bitter soil
That never knew a flower.

Look on yon child, it droops the head,
Its knees are bowed with pain;
It mutters from its wretched bed,
"Oh, let me sleep again!"

Alas! 't is time, the mother's eyes

Turn mournfully away;

Alas! 't is time, the child must rise,

And yet it is not day.

The lantern's lit - she hurries forth,
The spare cloak's scanty fold

Scarce screens her from the snowy north,
The child is pale and cold.

And wearily the little hands

Their task accustomed ply;

While daily, some mid those pale bands,
Droop, sicken, pine, and die.

Good God! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise!

Man from the cradle - 't is too soon
To earn their daily bread,

And heap the heat and toil of noon
Upon an infant's head.

To labour ere their strength be come,

Or starve,

is such the doom

That makes of many an English home
One long and living tomb?

Hath then the heart of man no love,
To spare such sacrifice?

Oh, England! though thy tribute waves Proclaim thee great and free,

While these small children pine like slaves, There is a curse on thee!