 | Poems |  |
75
THE ARTISAN.
'Tis hard, when on the stormy main,
The wave-worn sailor tries
For weeks in vain the port to gain,
That mocks his longing eyes.
The wave-worn sailor tries
For weeks in vain the port to gain,
That mocks his longing eyes.
And hard the settler's weary lot,
When, all the livelong day,
Through rugged woods and stubborn rocks
The axe and spade make way.
When, all the livelong day,
Through rugged woods and stubborn rocks
The axe and spade make way.
76
But harder is the piteous strife,
The awful feud between
The Elements and Human Life—
The Man and the Machine.
The awful feud between
The Elements and Human Life—
The Man and the Machine.
Poor wretch, that in some low dark room,
With failing hand and sight,
Through the long day at web and loom
Dost work from morn till night!
With failing hand and sight,
Through the long day at web and loom
Dost work from morn till night!
And toil to earn thy scanty meal,
Through half the midnight dark and dreary!
Alas, poor friend! those nerves of steel—
Those iron thews are never weary!
Through half the midnight dark and dreary!
Alas, poor friend! those nerves of steel—
Those iron thews are never weary!
Thou, in thy sad, unwholesome haunt,
May'st faint with want and woe,
But cold or hunger never daunt
Thy strong and sleepless foe.
May'st faint with want and woe,
But cold or hunger never daunt
Thy strong and sleepless foe.
O Children born to Want and Care,
And nursed by Toil and Pain!
These heavy loads why will ye bear
So long—and all in vain?
And nursed by Toil and Pain!
77
So long—and all in vain?
There is a land beyond the seas,
Where, not in vain, free hands may toil—
No tyrant flag hath mocked her breeze,
No tyrant foot her soil.
Where, not in vain, free hands may toil—
No tyrant flag hath mocked her breeze,
No tyrant foot her soil.
The ocean deep that round her foams
Shall be your only thrall—
To her broad fields and harvest homes
Come freely, one and all.
Shall be your only thrall—
To her broad fields and harvest homes
Come freely, one and all.
Perhaps there is no spectacle more pitiable than a manufacturing district, into which improvements of power and machinery are, for the first time, introduced. The poor handicraftsmen, ignorant of the inevitable result, and confident in their own skill and industry, work early and late in competition, until actual starvation compels them to direct to other labors, their minds and bodies alike warped by long and unvaried servitude.
| Poems | |