3. From the silence of sorrowful hours, Alike for the friend and the foe ;- 4. So, with an equal splendor, 5. So, when the summer calleth, 6. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, In the storm of the years that are fading Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day : 7. No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger for ever, When they laurel the graves of our dead;- Waiting the judgment day : Tears and love for the Gray. CXII. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 1. With fingers weary and worn, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, 2. "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! 3. "Work-work-work Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 4. "O men, with sisters dear! O men, with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt— 5. "But why do I talk of Death, Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, 6. "Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread-and rags; That shattered roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 7. "Work-work-work From weary chime to chime! Work-work—work— As prisoners work for crime! Band and gusset and seam, Seam and gusset and band Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand! 8. "Work-work-work In the dull December light! And work-work-work When the weather is warm and bright !— While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs 9. "Oh but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! 10. "Oh! but for one short hour- No blessed leisure for love or hope, A little weeping would ease my heart; My tears must stop, for every drop 11. With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch- CXIII. THE SHIP OF STATE. With all the hopes of future years, |