The sons of toil

 

Silver Member
Username: Wakenbake

Post Number: 326
Registered: Mar-06
THE SONS OF' TOIL.

You cannot pay with money
The million sons of toil--
The sailor on the ocean,
The peasant on the soil,
The labourer in the quarry,
The hewer of the coal;
Your money pays the hand,
But it cannot pay the soul.

You gaze on the cathedral,
Whose turrets meet the sky;
Remember the foundations
That in earth and darkness lie,
Nor, were not those foundations
So darkly resting there,
Yon towers could not soar up
So proudly in the air.

The workshop must be crowded
That the palace may be bright:
If the ploughman did not plough
Then the poet could not write.
Then let every toil be hallowed
That man performs for man,
And have its share of honor
As part of one great plan.

See, light darts from heaven,
And enters where it may;
The eyes of all earth's people
Are cheered with one bright day.
And let the mind's true sunshine
Be spread over earth for free,
And fill, the souls of men
As the waters fill the sea.

The man who turns the soil
Need not have an earthly mind;
The digger'mid the coal
Need not be in spirit blind,
The mind can shed a light
On each worthy labor done,
As lowest things are bright
In the radiance of the sun.

The tailor, ay, the cobbler,
May lift their heads as men,--
Better far than Alexander,
Could he wake to life again,
And think of all his bloodshed,
(And all for nothing too!)
And ask himself--What made I,
As useful as a shoe?

What cheers the musing student,
The poet, the divine?
The thought that for his followers
A brighter day will shine.
Let every human laborer
Enjoy the vision bright--
Let the thought that comes from heaven
Be spread like heaven's own light?

Ye men who hold the pen,
Rise like a band inspired,
And poets let your lyrics
With hope for man be fired?
Till the earth becomes a temple,
And every human heart
Shall join in one great service,
Each happy in his part.


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