”Here sleep the relics of an orphan flower,
Crush’d by the brutal foot of lawless pow’r;
Another victim to the thousands slain
Within the mighty slaughterhouse of gain.
O! come ye kind philanthropists, who feel
The noblest int’rests in the people’s weal,
Pause on this infant-martyr’s new turn’d grave, 
Swear to emancipate the British slave;
Tell the oppressor, that the widow’s God,
Injustice, wields an all-avenging rod.
And if the pow’rs of human virtue fail,
The hand of heaven will certainly prevail.”
– Death of a Factory Child, John Critchley Prince
(read the whole poem here)

Aquilo – It all comes down to this