1861. 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



95 



For the New England Farmer. 



"LABOR IS KING." 



Me. Fariter : — 



This is a very busy world. 

 The earth upon its axis twirled 

 Rolls constaut round without cessation, 

 And never stops for recreation ; 

 E'en steady Sol is in the practice 

 Of trundling round upon /as axis, 

 And winter-solstice-shortened days, 

 And lengthened nights, and his slant rays, 

 Scirce bring brief rest and lessened labor 

 And time for talk with chatty neighbor. 

 Ere high in heavt n he holds his reign. 

 And sets all things awork again ; 

 While maiiamliUna, she who whilom, 

 As one in lunatic asylum 

 Displays his antics and grimaces. 

 Hade up an endless change of faces, 

 Gives twice diurnal agitation 

 To all the watery crt ation ; 

 So Ocean ceaseless ebbs and flows, 

 And never rests in calm repose ; 

 The insect of a summer's day. 

 That lives its hour and dies away, 

 Spends that brief hour upon the wing, 

 A busy, buzzing, bustling thing; 

 And so in earth, in sea an<l sky. 

 All things that ( reep, or swim, or fly. 

 For food or fun are onward driving, 

 And after some "chief end" seem striving. 



But busy more than all beside. 

 More restless than the ocean's tide. 

 Than earth that trumiles on its axis, 

 Or moon which nightly wanes or waxes, 

 Than insect of a summer's day. 

 That hums its hour and dit;s away, — 

 Is man, creation's lower lord . — 

 Still, by some ruling passion stirred, 

 He traverses both land and ocean, 

 And is the true "perpetual motion," 



Then of this busy biped race, 

 Which finds on earth its divelling-place, 

 One of the busiest mortals in it, 

 With double dose for every minute, 

 Is he the tiller of that soil 

 Which yokes together tilth and toil. 

 And yields the treasures of her breast 

 Most fully when most freely prest ; 

 By "sweat of face" he earns his living. 

 And works from Fast-day to Thanksgiving. 



Aye, teorks : — let vale and hill -top ring 

 With paean-shout, — "Labor is King j 

 And neither cotton, corn or coin. 

 That regal honor may purloin. 

 Or, unpresumptuous, claim to share 

 The crown which this alone shall wear. 

 Shall the thing made contemn its maker? 

 The saw lift up against its shaker.' 

 The axe vainglorious, abuse 

 And flout the hand that with it hews .' 

 The stream unwise, the fount deride 

 Whence all its waters are supplied .' 



Labor is King:— by that ungraced. 



Earth were a wild and cheerless waste ; 



Not mere brute toil, as 'neath the goad 

 The ox. unreasoning, drags his load. 

 But thinking, free, which gives combined 

 The product of the hand and mind, 

 Of finest web a brain-work weaves, 

 Yet in stern conflict never grieves 

 With life's material ills to justle 

 Nor shames to 'travel on its muscle ;" 

 Wipes his swart brow anon, thus while he 

 Unites the dulce and utile. 



Labor is King; — long may he reign 

 Life, comfort, beauty, grace his train ; 

 The forest bows beneath his stroke, — 

 Then fair, as when creation woke 

 On Time's first morn, transformed the scene, 

 Stretch wide the "fields of living green." 

 Broadcast in Spring he sows the seed ; 

 Garners earth's stores for winter's need j 

 He guides the plow, and plies the flail. 

 With lacteal treasures fills the pail. 

 With vigorous arm the scythe he swings, 

 Hard by the bob'link blithsome sings, 

 The harvests bend wh re'er he goes. 

 And deserts blossom as the rose. 

 He spans the flood, or climbs the steep. 

 Brings treasures from "the vasty deep ;" 

 His hand unfurls the whitening sail, 

 And straight the canvass woos the gale ; 



He guides his bark through every zone. 

 And all earth's bounties makes his own. 

 Seeks he a path? — he bows the hills. 

 Anon the yawning valley fills, 

 (Or just, perchance, for double sport. 

 Bores Huosic and the General Court,) 

 Bridges the stream, with mighty tide 

 Of twice twelve furlongs stretching wide, 

 His steed of fire yokes to the train, 

 Then bids it smoke along the plain. 

 Far sundered dwellers bringing near. 

 And time and distance disappear. 



Honor to toil ; but toil is blest 

 But as it brings alternate rest ; 

 The shaft with half its force is sent 

 Sped from the bow that's ne'er unbent ; 

 Sweet is the task the daylight knows. 

 Because it brings the night's repose. 

 While turns the tide, with lessened roar 

 The surf- wave breaks upon the shore ; 

 The hen makes noisy demonstration 

 After her laying operation. 

 And cackling sets all hen-creation. 

 But quiet sits through incubation, — 

 (Unworthy of her hensliip's praise 

 The rhymester cackles in his lays ;) 

 The kind command to man from heaven, 

 Was work for six days, not for seven. 

 And the first pair unstained by vice. 

 Had Sabbath rest in Paradise. 



And now, with stillness half sublime. 

 Comes Nature's peaceful Sabbath-time; 

 Beneath its wintry vestment sleeping. 

 Earth hath no floweret up peeping. 

 No bursting germs to life appear. 

 No blade, or full corn in the ear. 

 No sougot bints, no insect's hum, 

 No jovous shout of harvest home ; 

 Where the green leaf and clustering bough 

 Were late, the wind-harp sigheth now ; 

 Life yields to death : — yet deep in earth. 

 Whence all this being had its birth. 

 Life's vital forces in this hour 

 Of seeming death, renew their power, 

 And soon the resurrection Spring 

 Her robe of green o'er all shall fling. 



Man, nature-taught, his labor stays. 

 With grateful heart the past surveys, 

 Then, hopeful, for the coming cares 

 With cheerful zeal himself prepares. 



How was that year, now run its round, 

 With overflowing plenty crowned ; — 

 Down pressed, up-filled, each bin and bay, 

 With golden corn, or fragrant hay. 

 Till, like the prophet's gift of old. 

 No room was left the boon to hold. 

 The year which dawns, may this be blest 

 Like that, and Nature's bosom prest 

 By labor's hand her increase yield ; 

 On meadow and on well tilled field 

 The springing grass and corn appear, 

 And "grow like sixty" f '60] through the year 



And he, who draws with skillful hand 

 The treasur' s from the willing land. 

 May he, the tiller and the toiler, 

 (He is your genuine Free-Soiler, 

 'Twas men like him, that toil and till. 

 At Concord and at Bunker Hill, 

 When foes with foes in strife were blended. 

 New England homes and hearts defended,) 

 Be blest in basket ami in store, 

 His garners aye be running o'er. 

 His oxen strong for labor still. 

 His meek eyed Durhams flowing fill 

 His brimming pails with foaming wealth. 

 His own cheeks mantle yet with health. 

 And sons and daughters, fair and able. 

 Like olive plants be round his table. 



And she, his lot who joyful shares. 

 Partakes his comforts and his cares, 

 The farmer's wife — no prouder name 

 Belongs to queen or titled dame, 

 Saf« in her trusts her husband's heart. 

 She gives her maiiiens each a part. 

 Her hands the distaff skillful hold. 

 She feareth not the snow or cold. 

 But riseth ere the morning light. 

 Her candle goes not out by night. 

 She gathereth stores of flax and wool. 

 Of self-wrought robes her drawers are full, 

 Her goodman standeth in the gates. 

 And for her sake praise on him waits — 

 May she, her helpmate's honest pride, 



