The Labourer's Orison At Sun-Rise. Poem by Samuel Bamford

How pure the air, how sweet the breeze!
The dewy grass how vernal!
What being hath created these
But Thou, the great Eternal!
A world of goodness spreads around,
A heaven above doth bless me;
But man the foe of man is found,
And laws unjust oppress me!

I gird me for another day
Of labour unrequited;
My Father and my Deity!
When shall these wrongs be righted?
Oh! stretch Thine hand out o'er this land,
A strong, a just redresser,
And bid the prostrate poor upstand,
And humble the oppressor!

We ask Thee for our daily bread,
Our feeble lives to cherish;
And lo! a bounteous feast is spread,
That none for lack may perish.
But king and statesman, peer and priest,
Whom guile hath made the stronger,
Have driven Thy people from the feast,
Condemn'd to toil and hunger!

Oh, Lord! how long shall this prevail?
How long Thy judgments linger?
Our little ones for bread do wail,
Their mothers faint of hunger.
Afar we stand, a gloomy band,
Our worth, our wants neglected,
The children in their father-land
Cut off, despis'd, rejected!

'Oh, Lord! how long,' the myriads pray,
'How long this sore despisement?'
'There is no God,' the oppressors say,
'To deal us out chastisement.'
But know, ye proud, ye sordid crowd,
A storm shall yet o'ertake you,
When God's right hand moves o'er the land,
Like wither'd stems to break you!

To humble your obdurate pride,
To ope your sealèd garners,
Rough-shod, a mighty cause shall ride
O'er your uplifted scorners;
And change you like the feather'd snow,
The melting sun hung o'er it;
And whirl you as the wind doth blow
The desert dust before it!