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At this, the farmer shrinks with fear,
And thinking 't was ill tarrying here,
Runs off, and cries, "Ay, kill me, then,
Whene'er you catch me here again!"
In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,-
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft," to the friendship which never shall fade.
Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.
Should they who are nearest and dearest thy heart, -
Thy relations and friends-in sorrow depart,-
"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where affection is ever in bloom.
And O, when Death comes in terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and depart.
ALL honor to the hard-worn hands
That earth-born toil are bearing!
And honor to the sturdy bands
That earth's cold crusts are sharing'
By forge and field their arms they wield,
By bench and anvil toiling;
In serried strength, our country's shield,
They keep her flag from soiling.
The good cordwainer sits him down
Upon his throne of leather,
And covets not the tyrant's crown,
Where clustered jewels gather;
High prizes he the soul that's free,
The mind by power unbroken;
To him loud mirth and jocund glee
Are freedom's language spoken.
"Ye ho! Ye ho!" the seamen shout
From every crested billow;
"Ye ho! heigh ho!" each watch about,
Like music, lulls his pillow:
And midst the storm his heart is warm,
The light of home is burning,
And kindly thoughts like blossoms swarm,
With genial spring returning.
Up from the forge the sparkling blaze
Lights on the smith to glory;
The yeoman stout, with morning's rays,
Shakes down night's tear-drops rosy ;
And solid health, with solid wealth,
Keep step with footfall steady;
Nor comes old age with creeping stealth,
But finds them ripe and ready.
Oh! all things labor that have birth,
From mote to towering mountain;
The oak that springs from out the earth,
The water in its fountain:
Each blazing star, that beams afar,
Its motion ceases never;
And myriad worlds of spirits are
To good works bound forever.
Then honor to the lusty hands
That earth-born toil are bearing!
And honor to the sturdy bands
By forge and field their arms they wield, By bench and anvil toiling;
In serried strength, our country's shield, They keep her flag from soiling,
THE sky is ruddy in the east,
The earth is gray below,
And spectral in the river mist
Our bare white timbers show.
Up!let the sounds of measured stroke
And grating saw begin:
The broad-axe to the knarléd oak,
The mallet to the pin!
roars the bellows, blast on blast!
The sooty smithy jars,
And sparks are rising far and fast,
And fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand
Beside that smashing forge;
All day for us his heavy hand
The groaning anvil scourge.
Gee up!-Gee ho! - The panting steam
For us is toiling near ;
For us the raftsmen down the stream
Their island-barges steer.
Rings out for us the axeman's stroke
In forests old and still;
For us the century circled oak
Falls crashing down his hill.
Up!-up!-In nobler toil than ours
No craftsmen bear a part;
We make of Nature's giant powers
The slaves of human Art.
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,
And drive the trunnels free;
Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam
Shall tempt the searching sea!
And set the good ship free!
Why lingers on these dusky rocks
The young bride of the sea?
Look! how she moves adown the grooves
In graceful beauty now!
How lowly on the breast she loves
Sinks down her virgin brow!
God bless her, whereso'er the breeze
Her snowy wing shall fan!
Aside the frozen Hebrides
Or sultry Hindostan !
Where'er, in mart or on the main,
With peaceful flag unfurled,
She helps to wind the silken chain
Of Commerce round the world!
Speed on the ship! but let her bear
No merchandise of sin;
No groaning cargo of despair
Her roomy hold within.
Her pathway on the open main
May blessings follow free,
And glad hearts welcome back again
Her white sails from the sea!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave ! - not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame;
But base, ignoble slaves-slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,
Rich in some dozen paltry villages —
Strong in some hundred spearsmen
In that strange spell, a name! Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder,
Cries out against them. But this very day,
An honest man, my neighbor-there he stands
Was struck-struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? Men, and wash not
The stain away in blood? Such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to you –
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? Look, in the next fierce brawl,
To see them die! Have ye daughters fair? Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonored! and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne
Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet we are Romans!
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman
Was greater than a king! And once again—
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus ! once again I swear,
The eternal city shall be free! her sons
Shall walk with princes!
AT midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;