Of costly clothing; by their side the dead
I smell who died to weave that cloth! Canst tell
Them from the lilies of the field? Tis well!
Or in the still hours of the night canst tell
The sobs of children from the dreadful noise
Machines make, when--deprived of childhood's toys-- The little ones in factories tall stand guard
O'er flying wheels, and through the night work hard, Robbed of their sleep and play?
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