Noon at Sheffield

[RichardB]

Noon at Sheffield.

NOON AT SHEFFIELD.

TIS twelve—the tinkling chimes from yonder bill

Sound forth the hour, the welcome hour to those

Who, close at work from early dawn, have plied

Their changeless tasks : in crowds now isssuing out,

They speed along the streets. Here as I sit,

At this small casement, poring on my books,

I hear their tread, and oft my truant eye

Looks out to see who 'tis that makes the noise.

There goes the smith with face of sooty hue

And leather apron flapping as he strides,

Not mindless of his dinner, smoking hot,

In fancy's hungry eye. Close at his heels

A train of fellow-labourers plod along,

In age, size, garb, and features varying much,

But sullied each with marks of sombre tint

That speak them of a trade : yet not without

Some chance admixture of a different class.

The miller, mealy-faced and powdered o'er,

Mingles conspicuous in the dusky train,

And the spruce shopman, and the ruddy lad

fresh from the conntry-air, bespattered high

With clayey soil, unlike the coal-black mud

That clogs his neighbours' heels. To various parts

The eager tribes are thronging ; they form

Four different currents meeting a a point,

Children and men and females. Mark the girl

Who now on pattens nimbly clatters by,

In prime of life, and yet her youthful face

Displays no roses galher'd in the breeze—

The mountain-breeze that feeds the cheek of health :

Pent up in airless rooms from morn to night,

She labours at her tasks, and bending gives

The steel its form or polish, plodding o'er

The same dull round of toil a thousand times :

To cheat the tedious hours, with random voice

Perchance she sings, or with her friends around

In converse joining, hears the merry tale

Or jest—alas ! not always chaste and pure,

Or such as youthful maiden ought to hear ! —

Oh ! Commerce, worshipp'd idol of the land,

Though thousand blessings wait upon thy steps,

Yet crimes and curses mingle in the train ;

And oft in thy dark cells, thy spacious halls,

Thy crowded houses, vice usurps the sway :

There oft the virgin's cheek forgets to blush,

There oft the snow of chastity is soil'd.

Numbers can make the jest pass lightly off,

Which, whisper'd to a solitary girl,

Would call the burning virtue to her cheeks,

And rouse indignant modesty to arms;

There heard with shameless laugh, till, deeply stained,

They act a part familiar to their ears,

Ana fall—the victims of lascivious tongues.

Past is the throng ; the street now silent grows,

Or haply here and there a lonely man

Disturbs the quiet as he passes by ;—

A momentary calm, for bursting loose,

Their frugal dinner o'er, forth rush the hoys

Intent on various sports, and, clamouring loud

In language barbarous to the tutor'd ear,

Vent the wild joy of youthful liberty.

The man, sedater, loiters at his meal,

And tastes the well-earn'd pleasures of repose,

Till, the short respite o'er, again he seeks

The scene of labour with renascent strength,

Again to toil that he may rest again.

Sheffield, Feb. 13, 1818.

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Gosh !!!!

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