Out with your saw-tempered blades of steel! Music with labor and art combine; Cheery as crickets all the day long, Piling the red blocks tier upon tier; Climbing and climbing still nearer the sun; Prouder than kings of the work they have done! Upward and upward the bricklayers go, Till men are but children and pigmies below; While the master's order falls ringing and short, To the staggering carrier, "Mort—oh, mort!” Clink! clink! trowel and brick! Music with labor and art combine; Brick upon brick, lay them up quick; But lay to the line, boys; lay to the line! Who are the peers of the best in the land- Work by the master's word and sign But lay to the line, boys; lay to the line!" THE INDEPENDENT FARMER. W. W. FOSDICK. Let sailors sing the windy deep; And round his cottage porch is seen When banks of bloom their sweetness yield He drives his team across the field Where skies are soft and sunny. The blackbird clucks behind his plough, To him the spring comes dancing gay, He cares not how the world may move, His little flock are link'd in love, And household angels round him; He trusts in God and loves his wife, Nor grief nor ill may harm her; TO LABOR IS TO PRAY. FRANCES S. OSGOOD. [Boldly and spiritedly.] Pause not to dream of the future before us; Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing; "Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth; Labor is glory! the flying cloud lightens; Only the waving wing changes and brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens; Play the sweet keys, would'st thou keep them in tune! Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping, 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; Rest not content in thy darkness--a clod! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labor-all labor is noble and holy; Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God! LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER. J. G. SAXE, [Tenderly and expressively.] Beneath the hill you may see the mill Year after year, early and late, Alike in summer and winter weather, He pecked the stones and caulked the gate, And mill and miller grew old together. "Little Jerry!" 'twas all the same They loved him well who called him so; And whether he'd ever another name Nobody ever seemed to know. "Twas "Little Jerry, come grind my rye," 'Twas "Little Jerry " on every tongue, But what in size he chanced to lack Jerry made up in being strong; I've seen a sack upon his back As thick as the miller and quite as long. Always busy, and always merry, Who uttered well his standing jest. "When will you grind my corn, I say?" "Nay," quoth Jerry, "you needn't scold; Just leave your grist for half a day, And never fear but you'll be tolled." How Jerry lived is known to fame, But how he died there's none may know; One autumn day the rumor came "The brook and Jerry are very low." |