 | Under Green Leaves |  |
80
HORNYHAND.
I
How now, Hornyhand,Toiling in the crowd,
What is there in thee or thine
That thou scornest me and mine—
Looking down so proud?
Thou'rt the bee, and I'm the drone!—
Not so,—Hornyhand!—
Sit beside me on the sward;—
Where's the need to stand?
And we'll reason, thou and I,
'Twixt the green grass and the sky.
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II
Thou canst plough and delve,Thou canst weave and spin,
On thy brow are streaks of care,
Iron-grey's thy scanty hair
And thy garments thin;—
Were it not for such as thou,
Toiling morn and night,
Luxury would lose its gauds,
And the land its might;
Mart and harbour would decay,
Tower and temple pass away.
III
Granted, Hornyhand!High's the work you do;—
Spring-time sowing, autumn tilth,
And the red wine's lusty spilth,
Were not but for you.
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Of our wealth and state,
Start from Labour's honest hands,—
Labour high and great,
Sire of Plenty, friend of Mirth,
Master of the willing Earth.
IV
Yet, good Hornyhand,Why shouldst thou be vain?
Why should builder, ploughman, smith,
Boastful of their strength and pith,
Scorn the busy brain?
Working classes, self-bedubb'd!—
As if none but they
Labour'd with incessant toil,
Night as well as day,
With the spirit and the pen,—
Teachers, guides, and friends of men!
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V
Drones there are, no doubt;—Yet not all who seem:
Flesh and blood are not the whole,
There's a honey of the soul,
Whatsoe'er thou deem.
Is the man who builds a book,
That exalts and charms,
Not as good as he who builds
With his brawny arms?
What were Labour but for Thought?—
Baseless effort, born of nought!
VI
Many a noble heart,Many a regal head,
Labours for our native land
Harder than the horniest hand
For its daily bread.
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Toil for human kind,
Unrewarded but of Heaven,
And the inner mind.
Thou recantest?—So!—'Tis done!
Pass from shadow into sun!
| Under Green Leaves | |