SONGS OF LABOR. THE SHIP-BUILDERS. THE sky is ruddy in the East, And, spectral in the river-mist, The ship's white timbers show. Then let the sounds of measured stroke And grating saw begin; The broad-axe to the gnarléd oak, The mallet to the pin! Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast, The sooty smithy jars, And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, Are fading with the stars. All day for us the smith shall stand All day for us his heavy hand The groaning anvil scourge. From far-off hills, the panting team For us is toiling near; For us the raftsmen down the stream Their island barges steer. Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke In forests old and still, For us the century-circled oak Falls crashing down his hill. Up!-up!-in nobler toil than ours No craftsmen bear a part: We make of Nature's giant powers The slaves of human Art. |