Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth : Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee! Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee! Look to yon pure Heaven smiling beyond thee; Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God! FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. THE SONG OF THE LOWER CLASSES. WE plough and sow-we 're so very, very low Till we bless the plain with the golden grain, Our place we know—we 're so very low, Down, down we go-we 're so very, very low-- But we gather the proudest gems that glow And whenever he lacks, upon our backs We're far too low to vote the tax, But not too low to pay. We 're low-we 're low-mere rabble, we know; But at our plastic power, The mold at the lordling's feet will grow Into palace and church and tower; We're low, we 're low-we 're very, very low,-. Yet from our fingers glide The silken flow and the robes that glow Round the limbs of the sons of pride. And what we get, and what we give, We're low-we 're low-we 're very, very low; The thrust of a poor man's arm will go We're not too low to kill the foe, But too low to touch the spoil. ERNEST CHARLES JONES. |