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

And wearily the little hands Their task accustom'd 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—'tis too soon To earn their daily bread, And heap the heat and toil of noon Upon an infant's head.