O YE who toil at forges! Or in the factories stand, Ye are the blood and muscle Of every mighty land. Upon your vast endeavor The thrones of greatness rest, 'T is only by your struggles A nation's name is blest. What though your lives be troubled, And yours laborious days, The glory of a people Shall be your meed of praise. Out of the endless working, Though shrouded seems the goal, Shall come the angel Progress, Advancement of the Whole. O ye who toil at forges Whose thunder drowns your moan, Ye yet shall reap the harvest Which rightly is your own. |