IN THE PIT.

“This is the steamer's pit.

The ovens like dragons of fire

Glare thro’ their close-lidded eyes

With restless hungry desire.

“Down from the tropic night

Rushes the funnelled air;

Our heads expand and fall in;

Our hearts thump huge as despair.

“‘ Tis we make the bright hot blood

Of this throbbing inanimate thing;

And our life is no less the fuel

Than the coal we shovel and fling.

“And lest of this we be proud

Or anything but meek,

We are well cursed and paid —

Ten shillings a week!”

Round, round, round in its tunnel

The shaft turns pitiless strong,

While lost souls cry out in the darkness:

“How long, O Lord, how long?”