Work, my brothers, dreams are naught,
Though with utmost splendour fraught,
If in actions ne'er out-wrought.
Those who more than others thrive
Drone not in life's busy hive,
But with giant effort strive.
Some may hold that honest trade,
Weft and shuttle, pick and spade,
And the humble plough, degrade;
Theirs alone to dine and dress—
Unambitious, purposeless—
Wasting life in idleness.
But your toil dishonours not;
So you keep your souls from blot
Kings might envy ye your lot.
Did not Adam delve the soil?
And his progeny must toil
Would they garner fruitage-spoil.
What are 'scutcheons covered o'er
With a dread heraldic lore,
Dripping daggers, hands of gore?
Your escutcheon is a shield
Bright with mountain, shop, and field,
And the tools ye deftly wield.
Ships that plough the pathless main,
Snorting engine, peopled train,
Whirling headlong o'er the plain—
Arches, bridges, churches tall,
Lordly castle, lordly hall,—
Humble workers made them all.
Work then, brothers; horny hands
Shape the future, knit the lands
With the love-electric bands.
Work, for work wrought honestly,
While it must ennoble ye,
Blesseth all humanity!