Imatges de pàgina
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SONGS OF LABOR.

THE SHIP-BUILDERS.

THE sky is ruddy in the East,
The earth is gray below,
And, spectral in the river-mist,

The ship's white timbers show.

Then let the sounds of measured stroke And grating saw begin;

The broad-axe to the gnarléd oak,

The mallet to the pin!

Hark roars the bellows, blast on blast,

The sooty smithy jars,

And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,
Are fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand
Beside that flashing forge

All day for us his heavy hand
The groaning anvil scourge.

From far-off hills, the panting team
For us is toiling near;

For us the raftsmen down the stream

Their island barges steer.
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke
In forests old and still,-

For us the century-circled oak
Falls crashing down his hill.

Up!-up!-in nobler toil than ours
No craftsmen bear a part:
We make of Nature's giant powers
The slaves of human Art.
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,
And drive the treenails free;
Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam
Shall tempt the searching sea!

Where'er the keel of our good ship
The sea's rough field shall plough-
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip
With salt-spray caught below-
That ship must heed her master's beck,
Her helm obey his hand,

And seamen tread her reeling deck
As if they trod the land.

Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak
Of Northern ice may peel;
The sunken rock and coral peak
May grate along her keel
And know we well the painted shel
We give to wind and wave,
Must float, the sailor's citadel,
Or sink, the sailor's grave!

Ho!-strike away the bars and blocks,

And set the good ship free!

Why lingers on these dusty rocks

The young bride of the sea?

Look! how she moves adown the grooves,

In graceful beauty now!

How lowly on the breast she loves

Sinks down her virgin prow!

God bless her! wheresoe'er the breeze

Her snowy wing shall fan,

Aside the frozen Hebrides,

THE SHOEMAKERS.

Or sultry Hindostan !

Where'er, in mart or on the main,
With peaceful flag unfurled,
She helps to wind the silken chain
Of commerce round the world!

Speed on the ship!-But let her bear
No merchandise of sin,
No groaning cargo of despair
Her roomy hold within.

No Lethean drug for Eastern lands,
Nor poison-draught for ours;
But honest fruits of toiling hands
And Nature's sun and showers.

Be hers the Prairie's golden grain,
The Desert's golden sand,
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,
The spice of Morning-land!
Her pathway on the open main
May blessings follow free,

And glad hearts welcome back again
Her white sails from the sea!

THE SHOEMAKERS.

Ho! workers of the old time styled
The Gentle Craft of Leather !
Young brothers of the ancient guild,
Stand forth once more together!
Call out again your long array,
In the olden merry manner!
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day,
Fling out your blazoned banner !

Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone
How falls the polished hammer!

Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown
A quick and merry clamor.
Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl
The glossy vamp around it,

And bless the while the bright-eyed girl
Whose gentle fingers bound it!

For you, along the Spanish main
A hundred keels are ploughing;
For you, the Indian on the plain
His lasso-coil is throwing;
For you, deep glens with hemlock dark
The woodman's fire is lighting;
For you, upon the oak's gray bark,
The woodman's axe is smiting.

For you, from Carolina's pine
The rosin-gum is stealing;
For you, the dark-eyed Florentine
Her silken skein is reeling;
For you, the dizzy goat-herd roams
His rugged Alpine ledges;

For you,

round all her shepherd homes,
Bloom England's thorny hedges.

The foremost still, by day or night,
On moated mound or heather,
Where'er the need of trampled right
Brought toiling men together;
Where the free burghers from the wall
Defied the mail-clad master,
Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call,
No craftsmen rallied faster.

Let foplings sneer, let fools deride-
Ye heed no idle scorner;
Free hands and hearts are still your pride.
And duty done, your honor.

Ye dare to trust, for honest fame,

THE SHOEMAKERS

The jury Time empanels,
And leave to truth each noble name
Which glorifies your annals.

Thy songs, Han Sachs, are living yet,
In strong and hearty German;
And Bloomfield's lay, and Gifford's wit,
And patriot fame of Sherman;
Still from his book, a mystic seer,
The soul of Behmen teaches,
And England's priestcraft shakes to hear
Of Fox's leathern breeches.

The foot is yours; where'er it falls,
It treads your well-wrought leather,
On earthen floor, in marble halls,
On carpet, or on heather.

Still there the sweetest charm is found
Of matron grace or vestal's,

As Hebe's foot bore nectar round
Among the old celestials!

Rap! rap!--your stout and bluff brogan,
With footsteps slow and weary,
May wander where the sky's blue span
Shuts down upon the prairie.

On Beauty's foot, your slippers glance,
By Saratoga's fountains,

Or twinkle down the summer dance
Beneath the Crystal Mountains!

The red brick to the mason's hand,
The brown earth to the tiller's,

The shoe in yours shall wealth command,
Like fairy Cinderella's!

As they who shunned the household maid Beheld the crown upon her,

So all shall see your toil repaid

With hearth and home and honor.

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