Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/98

 Successless oft their industry, -when cease The loom and shuttle in the troubled streets ; Their motion stopp'd by wild Intemperance, Toil's scoffing foe, who lures the giddy rout To scorn their task-work, and to vagrant life Turns their rude steps, while Misery, among The cries of infants, haunts their mould'ring huts. O when, thro' every province, shall be rais'd Houses of labour, seats of kind constraint, For those who now delight in fruitless sports More than in cheerful works of virtuous trade, Which honest wealth would yield, and portion due Of public welfare ? Ho, ye Poor ! who seek, Among the dwellings of the diligent, For sustenance unearn'd ; who stroll abroad From house to house, with mischievous intent, Feigning misfortune : Ho, ye Lame ! ye Blind ! Ye languid limbs, with real want oppress'd, Who tread the rough highways, and mountains wild, Thro' storms, and rains, and bitterness of heart ; Ye children of Affliction ! be compell'd To happiness : the long-wish'd daylight dawns, When charitable Rigour shall detain Your step-bruis'd feet. Ev'n now the sons of Trade, Where'er their cultivated hamlets smile, Erect the mansion ; here soft Fleeces shine ; The card awaits you, and the comb and wheel : Here shroud you from the thunder of the storm ; No rain shall wet your pillow : here abounds Pure beverage : here your viands are prepar'd : To heal each sickness the physician waits, And priest entreats to give your Maker praise.