Labor Song

H! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys ; Nothing to hope for, or labor for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath : Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death! THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH But blesséd that child of humanity, happiest man among men, Who, with hammer or chisel or pencil, with rudder or ploughshare or pen, Laboreth ever and ever with hope through the Winning home and its darling divinities-lovemorning of life, worshipped children and wife. sharp chisel rings, Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kingsHe the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race, Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the face.