As if she was washing the night into day--
Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora
Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her;
Not Venus that rose from the billow so early,
Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more _pearly_--
Her head is involv'd in an aerial mist,
And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist;
Her visage glows warm with the ardor of duty;
She's Industry's moral--she's all moral beauty!
Growing brighter and brighter at every rub--
Would any man ruin her?--No, Mr. Scrub!
No man that is manly would work her mishap--
No man that is manly would covet her cap--
Nor her apron--her hose--nor her gown made of stuff--
Nor her gin--nor her tea--nor her wet pinch of snuff!
Alas! so _she_ thought--but that slippery hope
Has betrayed her--as tho' she had trod on her soap!
And she,--whose support,--like the fishes that fly,
Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky--
She whose living it was, and a part of her fare,
To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea bear,
With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop--
Quite a living absorbent that revell'd in slop--
She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand,
And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land!

Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands,
Instead of a counterpane wringing her hands!
All haggard and pinch'd, going down in life's vale,
With no fagot for burning, like Allan-a-dale!
No smoke from her flue--and no steam from her pane,
There once she watch'd heaven, fearing God and the rain--
Or gaz'd o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross'd,
Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post!
Ah, where are the playful young pinners--ah, where
The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air--
The brisk waltzing stockings--the white and the black,
That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack--
The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd,
That blew into shape, and embodied the wind!
There was white on the grass--there was white on the spray--
Her garden--it looked like a garden of May!
But now all is dark--not a shirt's on a shrub--
You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub!
You've ruin'd her custom--now families drop her--
From her silver reduc'd--nay, reduc'd from her _copper_!
The last of her washing is done at her eye,
One poor little kerchief that never gets dry!
From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth,
And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth,--
But her children come round her