Classic Poem

“Labour, labour!” sounds the anvii,
“Labour, labour, until death!”
And the file, with voice discordant,
“Labour, endless labour!” saith.
While the bellows to the embers
Speak of labour in each breath.

“Labour, labour!” in the harvest,
Saith the whetting of the scythe,
And the mill-wheel tells of labour
Under waters falling blithe;
“Labour, labour!” groaned the millstones,
To the bands that whirl and writhe;

And the woodman tells of labour,
In his echo-waking blows;
In the forest, in the cabin,
'Tis the dearest word he knows.
“Labour, labour!” saith the spirit,
And with labour comes repose.

“Labour!” saith the loaded wagon,
Moving towards the distant mart.
“Labour!” groans the heavy steamer,
As she cleaves the waves apart.
Beating like that iron engine,
“Labour, labour!” cries the heart.

Yes, the heart of man cries “labour!”
While it labours in the breast.
But the Ancient and Eternal,
In the Word which he hath blest,
Sayeth, “Six days shalt thou labour,
On the seventh thou shalt rest!”

Then how beautiful at evening,
When the toilsome week is done,
To behold the blacksmith's anvil
Die in darkness with the sun;
And to think the doors of labour
Are all closing up like one.