They do the Maker wrong Who with the closing days of youth Shut fast the gate of Song; Nor ever shall I hold it truth, With those who feign to tell the tale of life, That only love is worth, the love that binds A youth and maid, nor care at all For the long summer ere the fruit shall fall, And deem unfit for song the glorious strife, The joy of toil and thought, the clash of vigorous minds, When knowledge flies before and we pursue, And who the Fair once followed, follow now the True. Ah, full fair life! if something we have lost, If never more again We feel the ancient joy, the former pain, If no more passion-tost Upon the tides of life we hurry by, The white waves laughing as we plunge along, Nor watch the light clouds drift along the sky, While the glad South snatches us swift and strong To some blest isle beyond the purple wave, Where Love is Queen and Mirth, nor Prudence grave Nor Wisdom frowns, but to be glad is all, From jocund morn till dewy evening fall; Oh, if that sky is dark -- those winds are still -- Another day has risen: again from the East Our treasure is increased; And as the orient Lord begins to grow, New airs begin to blow; And on the calm majestic tide, Our full-sailed galleon comes to glide, Love, with its little skiff, has gone, But Life's great bark sails on. Toil is the law of life, and its best fruit: This from the uncaring brute Divides; -- this and the prescient mind whose store Grows daily more and more. Toil is the mother of wealth, The nurse of health; Toil 'tis that gives the zest To well-earned rest; The law of life laid broad and deep As are the fixed foundations of the sea, The medicine of grief, the remedy, Wherefrom Life giveth his beloved sleep. Oh, labour truly blest! Thou rulest all the race; Over all the toiling earth I see thy gracious face Stand forth confest. Wherever thou art least, In those fair lands beneath the tropic blaze, The slothful savage, likened to the beast, Drags on his soulless length of days; Where most thou art, Man rises upward to a loftier height, And views the earth and heaven with clearer sight, And holds a cleaner heart. I see the toilers with the awaking morn, Ere yet the day is born, Go forth to labour over all the earth. In northern darkness, 'midst the wintry rain, The great bell clangs thro' the smoke-laden air; And ere light comes the workers gather there, While the great engines throb, the swift wheels turn, And the long, sickly gaslights flare and burn; I hear the slow winch creak above the pit, While the black workers, who have toiled all night, Rise, dazed, to rest and light; I see the fisher on the waking sea; The great ship, full-manned, heaving silently Across the foam; reapers in yellow corn; The frosty shepherd in the early morn; The naked worker bent among the cane Or cotton; the vinedresser, lean and brown; The thousand labours of the busy town; The myriad trades which in each clime and race Build up man's dwelling-place; I see the countless toiling multitude; And all I see is good. But to ends nobler still The nobler workers of the world are bent. It is not best in an inglorious ease To sink and dull content, When wild revolts and hopeless miseries The unquiet nations fill; It is not best to rot In dull observance, while the bitter cry Of weak and friendless sufferers rends the sky, Wailing their hopeless lot; Or rest in coward fear on former gain, Making old joys supply the present pain. Nay, best it is indeed To spend ourselves upon the general good; And, oft misunderstood, To strive to lift the knees and limbs that bleed; -- This is the best, the fullest meed. Let ignorance assail or hatred sneer Who loves his race he shall not fear; He suffers not for long, Who doth his soul possess in loving, and grows strong. Oh, student! far into the night From youth to age Bent low upon the blinding page, Content to catch some gleam of light; Art thou not happy, though the world pass by? -- Happy though Honours seek thee not, nor Fame, And no man knows thy name? -- Happy in that blest company of old Whose names are writ in characters of gold Upon the rocks of Time, the glorious band Who on the shining mountains stand, Thinker and jurist, bard or seer, Whatever name is brightest and most dear? Or thou with docile hand, Obedient to the visionary eye, Who 'midst art's precious work dost choose to stand Amid the great ones of the days gone by. Oh, blest and glorious lot, always to be With dreams of beauty compassed round about! The godlike mother and the child divine, Or land or sea or sky, in calm or storm, Nature's sincerest verities of form -- To see from canvas or from marble shine, Little by little orbing gradually, Some trace of hidden Godhead gleaming out! Or who, from heart and brain inspired, create, Defying time, defying fate, Some deathless theme and high, Some verse which cannot die, Some lesson which shall still be said Altho' their tongue be lost and dead; Or who, in daily labour's trivial round, Their fitting work have found; Or who on high, guiding the car of State, Are set, a people's envy and their pride, Who, spurning rank and ease and wealth, And setting pleasure aside and health, And meeting contumely oft and hate, Have lived laborious lives and all too early died. Or shall I silence keep Of you, oh ministering women fair, Who, while the world lies sunk in careless sleep, Still for the love of God and man can bear To watch by alien sick-beds, and to guard With little hope and scant reward, Midst misery and foul infected air, The friendless and the dying? Shall I dare To sing of labour's meed, nor hold you dear? Dear souls, your joys are great, and yet not wholly here; In heaven they blossom best and grow complete, And beautiful upon the eternal mountains are your feet. Ay, labour, thou art blest. From all the earth, thy voice, a constant prayer, Soars upward day and night. A voice of aspiration after right; A voice of effort yearning for its rest; A voice of high hope conquering despair! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AUTUMN SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD A MENDOCINO MEMORY by EDWIN MARKHAM JOE HILL LISTENS TO THE PRAYING by KENNETH PATCHEN SLANTS AT BUFFALO, NEW YORK by CARL SANDBURG SWALLOW FLIGHT by SARA TEASDALE |