 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
The Peerage of Industry.
1853.
[_]
[Written for, and recited at, the opening of the great Model Mill of Saltaire, near Bradford, where about seven thousand guests, nearly three thousand of whom were Mr. Salt's own work-people, sat down to a sumptuous dinner—all in one room. The lines have been circulated wherever the English language is read—a distinction as much above their merit, as was the liberality—worthy of the “Lord of Saltaire”—with which they were acknowledged.]
To the praise of the Peerage high harps have been strung,
By Minstrels of note and of name;
But a Peerage we have, to this moment unsung,
And why should not they have their fame?
'Tis the Peerage of Industry! Nobles, who hold
Their patent from Nature alone—
More genuine far than if purchased with gold,
Or won, by mean arts, from a throne!
And of Industry's Nobles, what name should be first,
If not his whose proud banquet we share?
For whom should our cheers simultaneously burst,
If not for the Lord of Saltaire?
For this is his praise—and who merit it not,
Deserve no good luck should overtake them—
That while making his thousands, he never forgot
The thousands that helped him to make them!
By Minstrels of note and of name;
But a Peerage we have, to this moment unsung,
And why should not they have their fame?
'Tis the Peerage of Industry! Nobles, who hold
Their patent from Nature alone—
More genuine far than if purchased with gold,
Or won, by mean arts, from a throne!
And of Industry's Nobles, what name should be first,
If not his whose proud banquet we share?
For whom should our cheers simultaneously burst,
If not for the Lord of Saltaire?
For this is his praise—and who merit it not,
Deserve no good luck should overtake them—
That while making his thousands, he never forgot
The thousands that helped him to make them!
407
The Peer who inherits an ancient estate,
And glads many hearts with his pelf,
We honour and love; but is that man less great,
Who founds his own fortune himself?
Who builds a town round him; sends joy to each hearth;
Makes the workman exult 'mid his toil;
And who, while supplying the markets of Earth,
Enriches his own beloved soil?
Such a man is a Noble, whose name should be first,
In our heart—in our song—in our prayer!
For such should our cheers simultaneously burst,
And such is the Lord of Saltaire!
For this is his praise—and who merit it not,
Deserve no good luck should overtake them—
That while making his thousands, he never forgot
The thousands that helped him to make them!
And glads many hearts with his pelf,
We honour and love; but is that man less great,
Who founds his own fortune himself?
Who builds a town round him; sends joy to each hearth;
Makes the workman exult 'mid his toil;
And who, while supplying the markets of Earth,
Enriches his own beloved soil?
Such a man is a Noble, whose name should be first,
In our heart—in our song—in our prayer!
For such should our cheers simultaneously burst,
And such is the Lord of Saltaire!
For this is his praise—and who merit it not,
Deserve no good luck should overtake them—
That while making his thousands, he never forgot
The thousands that helped him to make them!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |