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

the long-hid earth to heaven

Looks,
with wondering eye!
Loud behind us grow the murmurs
Of the age to come;
Clang of
smiths, and tread of farmers,
Bearing harvest home!
Here her virgin
lap with treasures
Shall the green earth fill;
Waving wheat and
golden maize-ears
Crown each beechen hill.

Keep who will the city's alleys
Take the smooth-shorn plain';
Give
to us the cedarn valleys,
Rocks and hills of Maine!
In our
North-land, wild and woody,
Let us still have part
Rugged nurse
and mother sturdy,
Hold us to thy heart!
Oh, our free hearts beat the warmer
For thy breath of snow;
And
our tread is all the firmer
For thy rocks below.
Freedom, hand in
hand with labor,
Walketh strong and brave;
On the forehead of his
neighbor
No man writeth Slave!
Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's
Pine-trees show its fires,
While
from these dim forest 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