Poem by Mary Howitt

The Unregarded Toils of the Poor

Alas! what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed;
What loving hearts are sundered
And yet man takes no heed!

He goeth in his daily course,
Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls
That in his bondage pine, —
That turn for him the mazy wheel,
That delve for him the mine!
And pitieth not the children small
In noisy factories dim,
That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,
Do heavy tasks for him!

To him they are but as the stones
Beneath his feet that lie:
It entereth not his thoughts that they
From him claim sympathy:
It entereth not his thoughts that God
Heareth the sufferer's groan,
That in His righteous eye their life
Is precious as his own.

1. The Fairies of the Caldon Low

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