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| THE DAY was fair, the cannon roared, | |
| Cold blew the bracing north, | |
| And Preston’s Mills, by thousands, poured | |
| Their little captives forth. | |
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| All in their best they paced the street, | 5 |
| All glad that they were free; | |
| And sung a song with voices sweet,— | |
| They sung of Liberty! | |
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| But from their lips the rose had fled, | |
| Like “death-in-life” they smiled; | 10 |
| And still, as each passed by, I said, | |
| Alas! is that a child? | |
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| Flags waved, and men—a ghastly crew— | |
| Marched with them, side by side: | |
| While hand in hand, and two by two, | 15 |
| They moved,—a living tide. | |
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| Thousands and thousands,—all so white!— | |
| With eyes so glazed and dull! | |
| O God! it was indeed a sight | |
| Too sadly beautiful! | 20 |
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| And O, the pang their voices gave | |
| Refuses to depart! | |
| This is a wailing for the grave, | |
| I whispered to my heart! | |
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| It was as if, where roses blushed, | 25 |
| A sudden blasting gale | |
| O’er fields of bloom had rudely rushed, | |
| And turned the roses pale. | |
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| It was as if in glen and grove | |
| The wild birds sadly sung; | 30 |
| And every linnet mourned its love, | |
| And every thrush its young. | |
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| It was as if in dungeon gloom, | |
| Where chained despair reclined, | |
| A sound came from the living tomb, | 35 |
| And hymned the passing wind. | |
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| And while they sang, and though they smiled, | |
| My soul groaned heavily,— | |
| O, who would be or have a child? | |
| A mother who would be? | 40 |
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