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SONGS OF LABOR.

SONGS OF LABOR.

THE SHIP-BUILDERS.

THE sky is ruddy in the East,
The earth is gray below,

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!

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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
Beside that flashing forge;

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.

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