But, like some tired child at even, On thy mother Nature's breast, Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking Truth, and peace, and rest. ΤΟ O'er that mother's rugged features Thou art throwing Fancy's veil, Light and soft as woven moonbeams, Beautiful and frail ! O'er the rough chart of Existence, And cool fountains flow. And to thee an answer cometh From the earth and from the sky, But a soul-sufficing answer More than Nature's many voices Even as the great Augustine Questioned earth and sea and sky,40 But his earnest spirit needed Only in the gathered silence Of a calm and waiting frame Not to ease and aimless quiet Not to idle dreams and trances, SONGS OF LABOR. So haply these, my simple lays That skirt and gladden duty's ways, The unsung beauty hid life's common things below. Haply from them the toiler, bent Above his forge or plough, may gain A manlier spirit of content, And feel that life is wisest spent Where the strong working hand makes strong the working brain. The doom which to the guilty pair Without the walls of Eden came, Transforming sinless ease to care And rugged toil, no more shall bear The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. A blessing now, a curse no more; Since He, whose name we breathe with awe, The coarse mechanic vesture wore, A poor man toiling with the poor, In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law. THE SHIP-BUILDERS. THE sky is ruddy in the east, The ship's white timbers show. |