Labor and Reform, vol 3, part 5 | Page 6

steed;
The stars of heaven shall guide
us,
The breath of heaven shall speed.
From the hill-top looks the steeple,
And the lighthouse from the sand;

And the scattered pines are waving
Their farewell from the land.

One glance, my lads, behind us,
For the homes we leave one sigh,

Ere we take the change and chances
Of the ocean and the sky.
Now, brothers, for the icebergs
Of frozen Labrador,
Floating
spectral in the moonshine,
Along the low, black shore!
Where like
snow the gannet's feathers
On Brador's rocks are shed,
And the
noisy murr are flying,
Like black scuds, overhead;
Where in mist tie rock is hiding,
And the sharp reef lurks below,

And the white squall smites in summer,
And the autumn tempests
blow;
Where, through gray and rolling vapor,
From evening unto
morn,

A thousand boats are hailing,
Horn answering unto horn.
Hurrah! for the Red Island,
With the white cross on its crown

Hurrah! for Meccatina,
And its mountains bare and brown!
Where

the Caribou's tall antlers
O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss,
And the
footstep of the Mickmack
Has no sound upon the moss.
There we'll drop our lines, and gather
Old Ocean's treasures in,

Where'er the mottled mackerel
Turns up a steel-dark fin.
The sea's
our field of harvest,
Its scaly tribes our grain;
We'll reap the
teeming waters
As at home they reap the plain.
Our wet hands spread the carpet,
And light the hearth of home;

From our fish, as in the old time,
The silver coin shall come.
As the
demon fled the chamber
Where the fish of Tobit lay,
So ours from
all our dwellings
Shall frighten Want away.
Though the mist upon our jackets
In the bitter air congeals,
And our
lines wind stiff and slowly
From off the frozen reels;
Though the
fog be dark around us,
And the storm blow high and loud,
We will
whistle down the wild wind,
And laugh beneath the cloud!
In the darkness as in daylight,
On the water as on land,
God's eye is
looking on us,
And beneath us is His hand!
Death will find us soon
or later,
On the deck or in the cot;
And we cannot meet him better

Than in working out our lot.
Hurrah! hurrah! the west-wind
Comes freshening down the bay,

The rising sails are filling;
Give way, my lads, give way!
Leave the
coward landsman clinging
To the dull earth, like a weed;
The stars
of heaven shall guide us,
The breath of heaven shall speed!
1845.
THE LUMBERMEN.
WILDLY round our woodland quarters
Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;

Thickly down these swelling waters
Float his fallen leaves.

Through the tall and naked timber,
Column-like and old,
Gleam the
sunsets of November,
From their skies of gold.

O'er us, to the southland heading,
Screams the gray wild-goose;
On
the night-frost sounds the treading
Of the brindled moose.
Noiseless
creeping, while we're sleeping,
Frost his task-work plies;
Soon, his
icy bridges heaping,
Shall our log-piles rise.
When, with sounds of smothered thunder,
On some night of rain,

Lake and river break asunder
Winter's weakened chain,
Down the
wild March flood shall bear them
To the saw-mill's wheel,
Or
where Steam, the slave, shall tear them
With his teeth of steel.
Be it starlight, be it moonlight,
In these vales below,
When the
earliest beams of sunlight
Streak the mountain's snow,
Crisps the
boar-frost, keen and early,
To our hurrying feet,
And the forest
echoes clearly
All our blows repeat.
Where the crystal Ambijejis
Stretches broad and clear,
And
Millnoket's pine-black ridges
Hide the browsing deer
Where,
through lakes and wide morasses,
Or through rocky walls,
Swift
and strong, Penobscot passes
White with foamy falls;
Where, through clouds, are glimpses given
Of Katahdin's sides,--

Rock and forest piled to heaven,
Torn and ploughed by slides!
Far
below, the Indian trapping,
In the sunshine warm;
Far above, the
snow-cloud wrapping
Half the peak in storm!
Where are mossy carpets better
Than the Persian weaves,
And than
Eastern perfumes sweeter
Seem the fading leaves;
And a music
wild and solemn,
From the pine-tree's height,

Rolls its vast and
sea-like volume
On the wind of night;
Make we here our camp of winter;
And, through sleet and snow,

Pitchy knot and beechen splinter
On our hearth shall glow.
Here,
with mirth to lighten duty,
We shall lack alone
Woman's smile and
girlhood's beauty,
Childhood's lisping tone.

But their hearth is brighter burning
For our toil to-day;
And the
welcome of returning
Shall our loss repay,
When, like seamen from
the waters,
From the woods we come,
Greeting sisters, wives, and
daughters,
Angels of our home!
Not for us the measured ringing
From the village spire,
Not for us
the Sabbath singing
Of the sweet-voiced choir,
Ours the old,
majestic temple,
Where God's brightness shines
Down the dome so
grand and ample,
Propped by lofty pines!
Through each branch-enwoven skylight,
Speaks He in the breeze,

As of old beneath the twilight
Of lost Eden's trees!
For His ear, the
inward feeling
Needs no outward tongue;
He can see the spirit
kneeling
While the axe is swung.
Heeding truth alone, and turning
From the false and dim,
Lamp of
toil or altar burning
Are alike to Him.
Strike, then, comrades! Trade
is waiting
On our rugged toil;
Far ships waiting for the freighting

Of our woodland spoil.
Ships, whose traffic links these highlands,
Bleak and cold, of ours,

With the citron-planted islands
Of a clime of flowers;
To our frosts
the tribute bringing
Of eternal heats;
In our lap of winter flinging

Tropic fruits and sweets.
Cheerly, on the axe of labor,
Let the sunbeams dance,
Better than
the flash of sabre
Or the gleam of lance!
Strike! With every blow is
given
Freer sun and sky,
And