Poems (Hoffman)/The True Dignity of Labor
THE TRUE DIGNITY OF LABOR
Sometime, somewhere, on art's high walls shall hang
A picture that all men shall turn to praise,
Forgetting that these broken harp-chords sang
In the far past its golden prophecies;
Beholding, strong, courageous, from the fight
The dignity of labor's armored knight.
A picture that all men shall turn to praise,
Forgetting that these broken harp-chords sang
In the far past its golden prophecies;
Beholding, strong, courageous, from the fight
The dignity of labor's armored knight.
And will one say the artist's dream is wrong?
False sentiment has nerved his eager hand?
The honest laborer is the column strong
On which all universal structures stand,
Hew down these pillars standing side by side
And great will be the fall—the ruin wide.
False sentiment has nerved his eager hand?
The honest laborer is the column strong
On which all universal structures stand,
Hew down these pillars standing side by side
And great will be the fall—the ruin wide.
Picture great cities clamoring for food
While plenteous grain-fields stand unharvested,
Picture the fires gone out, no coal or wood
And children crying for their daily bread,
While vineyards lie unpruned and orchards spoil
Because the laborer has ceased to toil.
While plenteous grain-fields stand unharvested,
Picture the fires gone out, no coal or wood
And children crying for their daily bread,
While vineyards lie unpruned and orchards spoil
Because the laborer has ceased to toil.
Still fancy painteth scenes—the half-built dome,
The unfinished glory of the architect,
The slow decaying beauty of the home
For want of paint and reparation wrecked,
The flocks unshorn—want that no hopes assuage—
Because the workman ceaseth on life's stage.
The unfinished glory of the architect,
The slow decaying beauty of the home
For want of paint and reparation wrecked,
The flocks unshorn—want that no hopes assuage—
Because the workman ceaseth on life's stage.
See higher stations, by the lowlier fed,
Deserted for the fields where labor delves;
The learned and great striving for daily bread
While wisdom gathers dust on idle shelves;
Then tell me honest labor is no part
Of the great world of intellect and heart?
Deserted for the fields where labor delves;
The learned and great striving for daily bread
While wisdom gathers dust on idle shelves;
Then tell me honest labor is no part
Of the great world of intellect and heart?
But view the dust-stained sons of toil return
Like a vast army in their solemn march,
Would not for them ten thousand welcomes burn
In splendor from one grand triumphal arch,
And wealth and fashion honor haste to do
Unto the many who must serve the few?
Like a vast army in their solemn march,
Would not for them ten thousand welcomes burn
In splendor from one grand triumphal arch,
And wealth and fashion honor haste to do
Unto the many who must serve the few?
When shall the artist's canvas honor him
Whom a false bigotry will not perceive
Rising from mists of ignorance, low and dim
'Till side by side with all who would achieve
He stands with noble aim for human good
In light of universal brotherhood?
Whom a false bigotry will not perceive
Rising from mists of ignorance, low and dim
'Till side by side with all who would achieve
He stands with noble aim for human good
In light of universal brotherhood?
He looketh not in dumb dejection pressed
Down to ignoble clods, but up and out,
His calling—it is one among the rest,
He meets it without questioning or doubt
And though he flaunts no sword and breasts no spoil
All honored be his implements of toil.
Down to ignoble clods, but up and out,
His calling—it is one among the rest,
He meets it without questioning or doubt
And though he flaunts no sword and breasts no spoil
All honored be his implements of toil.
Thus leave him—the erect and noble-browed,
Whom future generations gather round
When he who o'er his task an exile bowed
Stands as a prince upon his native ground,
Strong his right arm to wring by honest toil
The Nation's life-blood from a hallowed soil.
Whom future generations gather round
When he who o'er his task an exile bowed
Stands as a prince upon his native ground,
Strong his right arm to wring by honest toil
The Nation's life-blood from a hallowed soil.