Classic Poem

T HERE'S not on this round globe a thing
So despicably poor,
In city-home, 'neath cottage roof,
From distant shore to shore,
In all the kingdoms Nature owns
Throughout her every clan,
Beneath the blue outspreading sky,
As is the idle man.

Whilst each is labouring on, that each
May life's best gifts enjoy,
Some on the earth, some on the sea,
Some in the mine's employ;
He wrings his hands in Misery's chain,
And gropes about in gloom,
Or be he rich, or be he poor,
Unhappiness his doom.

Behold, Industry's hand hath rear'd
The city by the sea;
On river's bank, or mountain side,
Wherever it may be,
Has stretch'd the railway o'er the earth,
Built up the holy pyre,
And conquered time and space itself
By the electric wire.

The artisan, with earnest skill,
Is labouring day by day;
The scholar thinks to bless mankind,
The poet frames his lay;
The woodman clears the forest dim,
The shipwright builds the bark,
The ploughman whistles as he works,
Where soars the singing lark.

The farmer cultivates the soil
Through days of cloud and gloom,
And, by and bye, the seed springs up,
And deserts bud and bloom.
So is it with the human heart:
Who cultivates it well
Shall reap a harvest of delight,
No tongue of earth can tell.

The thatcher shaves the reed away
From off the cottage-eaves;
And sweet the reaper's song is heard
Among the rustling sheaves;
And, on the sea, the sailor's voice
Rings out upon the gale,
As he steers on his own good ship,
While flaps the pleasant sail.

Nor does the housewife waste her hours
To spread each welcome meal;
She counts the moments as they pass,
And from her quickly steal;
The seamstress stitches on and on;
And by the road-side lone
The old man brings his hammer down
Upon the stubborn stone.

And swift the weaver's shuttle flies
From dawn till dusk of day;
The printer fills the precious page
Alike for grave and gay.
The artist paints the hero's deeds,
Who fame has nobly won;
And grandam, by her cottage door,
Sits knitting in the sun.

Along the street, or o'er the fields,
Or be it sun or shower,
When roses bloom, or leaves decay
In Nature's yellow bower,
Let hailstones rattle through the dark,
And thunder shake the town,
The postman, with his shoulder'd bag,
Is trudging up and down.

The preacher, from the pulpit, warns
The wandering sons of men;
The author cheers the path of life,
And smooths it with his pen.
The lady, by the sick man's bed,
Reads and diffuses joy;
And Nature, with ten thousand tongues,
Sings at her rich employ.

And thus Industry's children toil
Wherever peace is found;
Some with the head, some with the hands,
To bless the world around.
But, like a blot on Nature's face,
He groans amid his clan,
Thwarting the purposes of Heaven:
Out on the idle man!