Labor and Reform, vol 3, part 5 | Page 7

gardens?Rise their blackened spires.?Up, my comrades! up and doing!?Manhood's rugged play?Still renewing, bravely hewing?Through the world our way!?1845.
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 gnarled 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 shell?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,?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?1846.
THE DROVERS.
THROUGH heat and cold, and shower and sun,?Still onward cheerly driving?There's life alone in duty done,?And rest alone in striving.?But see! the day is closing cool,?The woods are dim before us;?The white fog of the wayside pool?Is creeping slowly o'er us.
The night is falling, comrades mine,?Our footsore beasts are weary,?And through yon elms the tavern sign?Looks out upon us cheery.?The landlord beckons from his door,?His beechen fire is glowing;?These ample barns, with feed in store,?Are filled to overflowing.
From many a valley frowned across?By brows of rugged mountains;?From hillsides where, through spongy moss,?Gush out the river fountains;?From quiet farm-fields, green and low,?And bright with blooming clover;?From vales of corn the wandering crow?No richer hovers over;
Day after day our way has been?O'er many a hill and hollow;?By lake and stream, by wood and glen,?Our stately drove we follow.?Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun,?As smoke of battle o'er us,?Their white horns glisten in the sun,?Like plumes and crests before us.
We see them slowly climb the hill,?As slow behind it sinking;?Or, thronging close, from roadside rill,?Or sunny lakelet, drinking.?Now crowding in the narrow road,?In thick and struggling masses,?They glare upon the teamster's load,?Or rattling coach that passes.
Anon, with toss of horn and tail,?And paw of hoof, and bellow,?They leap some farmer's broken pale,?O'er meadow-close or fallow.?Forth comes the startled goodman; forth?Wife, children, house-dog, sally,?Till once more on their dusty path?The baffled truants rally.
We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown,?Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony,?Like those who grind their noses down?On pastures bare and stony,--?Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs,?And cows too lean for shadows,?Disputing feebly with the frogs?The crop of saw-grass meadows!
In our good drove, so sleek and fair,?No bones of leanness rattle;?No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there,?Or Pharaoh's evil cattle.?Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand?That fed him unrepining;?The fatness of a goodly land?In each dun hide is shining.
We've sought them where, in warmest nooks,?The freshest feed is growing,?By sweetest springs and clearest brooks?Through honeysuckle flowing;?Wherever hillsides, sloping south,?Are bright with early grasses,?Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth,?The mountain streamlet passes.
But now the day is closing cool,?The woods are dim before us,?The white fog of the wayside pool?Is creeping slowly o'er us.?The cricket to the frog's bassoon?His shrillest time is keeping;?The sickle of yon setting moon?The meadow-mist is reaping.
The night is falling, comrades mine,?Our footsore beasts are weary,?And through yon elms the tavern sign?Looks out upon us cheery.?To-morrow, eastward with our charge?We'll go to meet the dawning,?Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge?Have seen the sun of morning.
When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth,?Instead of