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

never set,
Dim
colors of its faded bow,
And early beauty, linger there,
And o'er its
wasted desert blow
Faint breathings of its morning air.
Oh, never
yet upon the scroll
Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul,
Hath
Heaven inscribed "Despair!"
Cast not the clouded gem away,

Quench not the dim but living ray,--
My brother man, Beware!

With that deep voice which from the skies
Forbade the Patriarch's
sacrifice,
God's angel cries, Forbear
1843
SONGS OF LABOR.
DEDICATION.
Prefixed to the volume of which the group of six poems following this
prelude constituted the first portion.
I WOULD the gift I offer here
Might graces from thy favor take,

And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere,
On softened lines and
coloring, wear
The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake.
Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain
But what I have I give to thee,

The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain,
And paler flowers, the
latter rain
Calls from the westering slope of life's autumnal lea.
Above the fallen groves of green,
Where youth's enchanted forest
stood,
Dry root and mossed trunk between,
A sober after-growth is
seen,
As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple wood!
Yet birds will sing, and breezes play
Their leaf-harps in the sombre
tree;
And through the bleak and wintry day
It keeps its steady green
alway,--
So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee.

Art's perfect forms no moral need,
And beauty is its own excuse;

But for the dull and flowerless weed
Some healing virtue still must
plead,
And the rough ore must find its honors in its use.
So haply these, my simple lays
Of homely toil, may serve to show

The orchard bloom and tasselled maize
That skirt and gladden duty's
ways,
The unsung beauty hid life's common things below.
Haply from them the toiler, bent
Above his forge or plough, may gain,

A manlier spirit of content,
And feel that life is wisest spent

Where the strong working hand makes strong the
working brain.
The doom which to the guilty pair
Without the walls of Eden came,

Transforming sinless ease to care
And rugged toil, no more shall bear

The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame.
A blessing now, a curse no more;
Since He, whose name we breathe
with awe,
The coarse mechanic vesture wore,
A poor man toiling
with the poor,
In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law.
1850.
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 I 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 goatherd 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 jury Time empanels,
And
leave to truth each noble name
Which glorifies your annals.
Thy songs, Hans 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.
Then let the toast be freely quaffed,
In water cool and brimming,--

"All honor to the good old Craft,
Its merry men and women!"
Call
out again your long array,
In the old time's pleasant manner
Once
more, on gay St. Crispin's day,
Fling out his blazoned banner!
1845.
THE FISHERMEN.
HURRAH! the seaward breezes
Sweep down the bay amain;
Heave
up, my lads, the anchor!
Run up the sail again
Leave to the lubber
landsmen
The rail-car and the