 | Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems |  |
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The Artisan.
The day is past;—the quiet night
Toward its midhour weareth on;
His workshop has been closed for hours—
A good day's labor done.
The toil is hard that brings him bread;
And sometimes he has scant supply:
When droops awhile his manly head,
And glistens his full eye.
Toward its midhour weareth on;
His workshop has been closed for hours—
A good day's labor done.
The toil is hard that brings him bread;
And sometimes he has scant supply:
When droops awhile his manly head,
And glistens his full eye.
Yet from the trial shrinks he not;
For he has youth, and strength, and will;
And though his toil is ill repaid,
Bends daily to it still.
He sometimes murmurs,—but his pride
Checks each expression at its birth,—
That blessings to his class denied
Surround the drones of earth.
For he has youth, and strength, and will;
And though his toil is ill repaid,
Bends daily to it still.
He sometimes murmurs,—but his pride
Checks each expression at its birth,—
That blessings to his class denied
Surround the drones of earth.
He passes, morn and noon and night,
The homes of luxury and wealth;
And glances at their gilded ease,
His eye will take by stealth.
And shadows gather on his face,
At times—but instantly depart—
He feels such weakness a disgrace
Both to his head and heart.
The homes of luxury and wealth;
And glances at their gilded ease,
His eye will take by stealth.
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At times—but instantly depart—
He feels such weakness a disgrace
Both to his head and heart.
His calling sometimes takes him where
Wealth, worth, grace, beauty, all unite;
And lovely tones arrest his ear,
And lovely looks his sight;
And much he thinks—and half he sighs—
Yet ere his welcome work is done,
He longs for home, and Mary's eyes,
And for his prattling son.
Wealth, worth, grace, beauty, all unite;
And lovely tones arrest his ear,
And lovely looks his sight;
And much he thinks—and half he sighs—
Yet ere his welcome work is done,
He longs for home, and Mary's eyes,
And for his prattling son.
His labor hath been light to-day;
And wife and child before him sleep;
And he has pass'd the half-spent night
In study close and deep.
The lamp burns dim—the fire is low—
The book is closed wherein he read;
But wildly swell the streams of thought
Its fountain-pages fed.
And wife and child before him sleep;
And he has pass'd the half-spent night
In study close and deep.
The lamp burns dim—the fire is low—
The book is closed wherein he read;
But wildly swell the streams of thought
Its fountain-pages fed.
With eyes fixed calmly on the floor,
But varying and expressive face,
He cons the lesson o'er and o'er—
The history of his race.
And much he finds of word and deed,
Whose virtue is example now;
But more that makes his bosom bleed,
And darkens o'er his brow.
But varying and expressive face,
He cons the lesson o'er and o'er—
The history of his race.
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Whose virtue is example now;
But more that makes his bosom bleed,
And darkens o'er his brow.
The thirst for wealth,—the strife for power—
The ceaseless struggle for renown—
The daring that hath seized a realm,
Or caught a wavering crown—
The manhood that hath tamely bent
And fall'n beneath tyrannic sway—
The balk'd resistance, that hath lent
Its darkness to the day.
The ceaseless struggle for renown—
The daring that hath seized a realm,
Or caught a wavering crown—
The manhood that hath tamely bent
And fall'n beneath tyrannic sway—
The balk'd resistance, that hath lent
Its darkness to the day.
But chiefly this it is that fills
The swelling volume of his mind:
The countless wrongs and cruelties
That have oppress'd his kind.
And viewing them, upon his brain
His own hard struggles darkly throng;
And as he feels their weight again,
It presses like a wrong:
The swelling volume of his mind:
The countless wrongs and cruelties
That have oppress'd his kind.
And viewing them, upon his brain
His own hard struggles darkly throng;
And as he feels their weight again,
It presses like a wrong:
Wrong to himself, and wrong to all
Who bear the burdens he hath borne:
“A yoke!” up starting he exclaims,
“And oh, how meekly worn!”
But as he reads Life's riddle still,
He feels, with sudden change of mood,
The stern, the indomitable will,
That never was subdued.
Who bear the burdens he hath borne:
“A yoke!” up starting he exclaims,
“And oh, how meekly worn!”
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He feels, with sudden change of mood,
The stern, the indomitable will,
That never was subdued.
The will, not to destroy, but build!
Not the blind Might of old renown,
Which took the pillars in its grasp,
And shook the temple down—
But that whose patient energy
Works ever upward, without rest,
Until the pierced and parted sea
Rolls from its coral breast.
Not the blind Might of old renown,
Which took the pillars in its grasp,
And shook the temple down—
But that whose patient energy
Works ever upward, without rest,
Until the pierced and parted sea
Rolls from its coral breast.
In the dim fire-light, for awhile,
His tall form moveth to and fro;
Then by the couch of those he loves
He stops, and bendeth low.
Oh, holy love! oh, blessèd kiss!
Ye ask not splendor—bide not pow'r—
But in a humble home like this,
Ye have your triumph hour!
His tall form moveth to and fro;
Then by the couch of those he loves
He stops, and bendeth low.
Oh, holy love! oh, blessèd kiss!
Ye ask not splendor—bide not pow'r—
But in a humble home like this,
Ye have your triumph hour!
He sleeps—but even on his dreams
Obtrudes the purpose of his soul;
He wanders where the living streams
Of knowledge brightly roll;
And where men win their own good ways,
Not yield to doubt or dark despair,
In dreams his bounding spirit strays—
In dreams he triumphs there.
Obtrudes the purpose of his soul;
He wanders where the living streams
Of knowledge brightly roll;
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Not yield to doubt or dark despair,
In dreams his bounding spirit strays—
In dreams he triumphs there.
With stronger arm, with mightier heart,
Than he hath felt or known before,
When comes the morrow's hour of toil,
He'll leave his humble door.
No wavering hence he'll know—no rest,
Until the new-seen goal be won;
But firm, and calm, and self-possess'd,
Bear resolutely on.
Than he hath felt or known before,
When comes the morrow's hour of toil,
He'll leave his humble door.
No wavering hence he'll know—no rest,
Until the new-seen goal be won;
But firm, and calm, and self-possess'd,
Bear resolutely on.
And this it is that, year by year,
Through which nor faith nor hope grows less,
Pursued, shall crown his high career
With honor and success.
This—this it is that marks the man!
Dare thou, then, 'neath whose studious eye
This lesson lies, rouse up at once,
And on thyself rely!
Through which nor faith nor hope grows less,
Pursued, shall crown his high career
With honor and success.
This—this it is that marks the man!
Dare thou, then, 'neath whose studious eye
This lesson lies, rouse up at once,
And on thyself rely!
Give to thy free soul freest thought;
And whatsoe'er it prompts thee do,
That manfully, year in, year out,
With all thy might pursue.
What though thy name may not be heard
Afar, or shouted through the town,
Thou 'lt win a higher meed of praise,
A worthier renown.
And whatsoe'er it prompts thee do,
That manfully, year in, year out,
With all thy might pursue.
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Afar, or shouted through the town,
Thou 'lt win a higher meed of praise,
A worthier renown.
Press on, then!—earth has need of thee!
The metal at the forge is red;
The ax is rusting by the tree;
The grain hangs heavy in the head.
Heed not who works not—labor thou!
Lay bravely hold, nor pause, nor shrink!
Life's Rubicon is here—and stand
Not dubious on the brink!
The metal at the forge is red;
The ax is rusting by the tree;
The grain hangs heavy in the head.
Heed not who works not—labor thou!
Lay bravely hold, nor pause, nor shrink!
Life's Rubicon is here—and stand
Not dubious on the brink!
| Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems | |