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Elizabeth Akers Allen

The Factory Girl's Last Day.

Robert Dale Owen, in one of the chapters of his autobiography reproduces the following poem, written to illustrate an incident of English factory life: 'T WAS on a winter morning, The weather wet and wild, Two hours before the dawning The father roused his child; Her daily morsel bringing, The darksome room he paced, And cried, "The bell is ringing; My hapless darling, haste!" "Dear father, I'm so sorry!

I scarce can reach the door; And long the way and dreary; Oh, carry me once more!"

Her wasted form seems nothing; The load is on his heart; He soothes the little sufferer, Till at the mill they part.

The overlooker met her As to her frame she crept; And with his thong he beat her, And cursed her when she wept.

It seemed, as she grew weaker, The threads the oftener broke, The rapid wheels ran quicker, And heavier fell the stroke.

She thought how her dead mothe Blessed with her latest breath, And of her little brother, Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow!

The wild red rose-the speedwell's peeping eyes- B Worked down, like her, to death; Then told a tiny neighbor A half-penny she'd pay To take her last hour's labor, While by her frame she lay.

The sun had long descended Ere she sought that repose; Her day began and ended As cruel tyrants chose.

Then home! but oft she tarried; She fell, and rose once more; By pitying comrades carried, She reached her father's door.

At night, with tortured feeling, He watched his sleepless child; Though close beside her kneeling, She knew him not, nor smiled.

Again the factory's ringing Her last perceptions tried; Up from her straw-bed springing, "It's time!" she shrieked, and died.

That night a chariot passed her, While on the ground she lay; The daughters of her master An evening visit pay Their tender hearts were sighing, As negroes' wrongs were told While the white slave was dying Who gained their father's gold.

Beautiful Flowers.

EAUTIFUL children of the woods and fields !

That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid the heather, Or into clusters, 'neath the hazels, gather; Or where by hoary rocks you make your beilds, And sweetly flourish on through summer weather- Beautiful flowers! to me ye fresher seem From the Almighty hand that fashioned all, Than those that flourish by a garden-wall; And I can imagine you, as in a dream, Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small- I love ye all' Beautiful gems! that on the brow of earth Are fixed, as in a queenly diadem ; Though lowly ye, and most without a name, Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth, As light erewhile into the world came - I love ye all!

Our own bluebell-the daisy, that doth rise Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow; And thousands more, of blessed forms and dyes- I love ye all!

Beautiful nurslings of the early dew !

Fanned in your loveliness by every breeze, And shaded o'er by green and arching trees; I often wish that I were one of you, Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas- I love ye all!

Beautiful watchers! day and night ye wake!

The evening star grows dim and fades away, And morning comes and goes, and then the day Within the arms of night its rest doth take; But ye are watchful wheresoe'er we stray- I love ye all !

Beautiful objects of the wild-bee's love!

The wild-bird joys your opening bloom to see, And in your native woods and wilds to be.

All hearts, to Nature true, ye strangely move; Ye are so passing fair-so passing free- I love ye all!

Beautiful children of the glen and dell- The dingle deep-the moorland stretching wide And of the mossy fountain's sedgy side!

Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell:

And, though the worldling, scorning, ma deride O I love ye all !