When that which is call'd the "waste land" now, Shall ring with the "Harvest Home." Then sing for the Kings who have no crown But the blue sky o'er their head ;- Never Sultan or Dey had such power as they, To withhold or to offer bread.
I value him whose foot can tread By the corn his hand hath sown; When he hears the stir of the yellow reed It is more than music's tone.
There are prophet-sounds that stir the grain, When its golden stalks shoot up; Voices that tell how a world of men Shall daily dine and sup.
Then shame, oh, shame on the miser creed, Which holds back praise or pay
From the men whose hands make rich the lands,-
For who earn it more than they?
Then sing for the Kings who have no crown But the blue sky o'er their head ;-
Never Sultan or Dey had such power as they, To withhold or to offer bread.
The poet hath gladden'd with song the past, And still sweetly he striketh the string; But a brighter light on him is cast Who can plough as well as sing. The wand of Burns had a double power To soften the common heart,
Since with harp and spade, in a double trade, He shared a common part.
Rome lavish'd fame on the yeoman's name Who banish'd her deep distress;
But had he ne'er quitted the field or the plough, His mission had scarce been less.
Then sing for the Kings who are mission'd all To a toil that is rife with good ;
Never Sultan or Dey had such power as they, To withhold or to offer food.
E. H. BURRINGTON, 1848.
ONE by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall; Some are coming, some are going, Do not strive to grasp them all!
One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each,
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou first what these can teach.
One by one (bright gifts from Heaven) Joys are sent thee here below; Take them readily when given,
Ready too to let them go.
One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Do not fear an armed band; One will fade as others greet thee, Shadows passing through the land.
Do not look at life's long sorrow; See how small each moment's pain ; God will help thee for to-morrow, Every day begin again.
Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or bear; Luminous the crown, and holy, If thou set each gem with care.
Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond; Nor, the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond.
Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER, 1826-1864.
My God, I thank Thee! may no thought E'er deem Thy chastisements severe; But may this heart, by sorrow taught, Calm each wild wish, each idle fear.
Thy mercy bids all nature bloom;
The sun shines bright, and man is gay; Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom That darkens o'er his little day.
Full many a throb of grief and pain Thy frail and erring child must know; But not one prayer is breath'd in vain, Nor does one tear unheeded flow.
Thy various messengers employ; Thy purposes of love fulfil; And 'mid the wreck of human joy, May kneeling Faith adore Thy will! ANDREW NORTON, 1786-1852.
For the Master's eye is on us, Never off us, still upon us, Night and day! Work away!
Keep the busy fingers plying, Keep the ceaseless shuttles flying; See that never thread lie wrong; Let not clash or clatter round us, Sound of whirring wheels, confound us; Steady hand! let woof be strong And firm, that has to last so long! Work away!
Keep upon the anvil ringing Stroke of hammer; on the gloom Set 'twixt cradle and 'twixt tomb Shower of fiery sparkles flinging; Keep the mighty furnace glowing; Keep the red ore hissing, flowing Swift within the ready mould; See that each one than the old Still be fitter, still be fairer For the servant's use, and rarer For the Master to behold:
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