The Labourer

Stand up — erect! Thou hast the form,
And likeness of thy God! — who more?
A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then? — Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy I the high
In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee?
A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast
The light leaf from the tree.

No: — uncurb'd passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus check'd;

These are thine enemies — thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labour and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine" enemy!
The great! — what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free?
Has God with equal favours thee
Neglected to endow?

True, wealth thou hast not — 'tis but dust!
Nor place — uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the last
Of both — a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then: that thy little span
Of life may be well trod!