Poems (Hoffman)/The True Dignity of Labor
THE TRUE DIGNITY OF LABOR
Sometime, somewhere, on art's high walls shall hangA picture that all men shall turn to praise,Forgetting that these broken harp-chords sangIn the far past its golden prophecies;Beholding, strong, courageous, from the fightThe 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 strongOn which all universal structures stand,Hew down these pillars standing side by sideAnd great will be the fall—the ruin wide.
Picture great cities clamoring for foodWhile plenteous grain-fields stand unharvested,Picture the fires gone out, no coal or woodAnd children crying for their daily bread,While vineyards lie unpruned and orchards spoilBecause 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 homeFor 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 breadWhile wisdom gathers dust on idle shelves;Then tell me honest labor is no partOf the great world of intellect and heart?
But view the dust-stained sons of toil returnLike a vast army in their solemn march,Would not for them ten thousand welcomes burnIn splendor from one grand triumphal arch,And wealth and fashion honor haste to doUnto the many who must serve the few?
When shall the artist's canvas honor himWhom a false bigotry will not perceiveRising from mists of ignorance, low and dim'Till side by side with all who would achieveHe stands with noble aim for human goodIn light of universal brotherhood?
He looketh not in dumb dejection pressedDown to ignoble clods, but up and out,His calling—it is one among the rest,He meets it without questioning or doubtAnd though he flaunts no sword and breasts no spoilAll honored be his implements of toil.
Thus leave him—the erect and noble-browed,Whom future generations gather roundWhen he who o'er his task an exile bowedStands as a prince upon his native ground,Strong his right arm to wring by honest toilThe Nation's life-blood from a hallowed soil.