The Unfinished Book
TAKE it, reader, idly passing,
This, like other idle lines;
Take it, critic, great at classing
Subtle genius and its signs:
But, O reader, be thou dumb;
Critic, let no sharp wit come;
For the hand that wrote and blurred
Will not write another word;
And the soul you scorn or prize,
Now than angels is more wise.
Take it, heart of man or woman,
This unfinished broken strain,
Whether it be poor or common
Or the noblest work of brain;
Let that good heart only sit
Now in judgment over it
Tenderly, as we would read,--
Any one, of any creed,
Any churchyard passing by,--
'Sacred to the Memory.
Wholly sacred: even as lingers
Final word, or last look cast.
Or last clasp of life-warm fingers,
Which we knew not was the last.
Or, as we apart do lay,
The day after funeral-day,
Their dear relics, great and small,
Who need nothing--yet win all:
All the best we had and have,
Buried in one silent grave.
All our highest aspirations,
And our closest love of loves;
Our most secret resignations,
Our best work that man approves,
Yet which jealously we keep
In our mute heart's deepest deep.
So of this poor broken song
Let no echoes here prolong:
For the singer's voice is known
In the heaven of heavens alone.
Labor Is Prayer
LABORARE est orare:
We, black-visaged sons of toil,
From the coal-mine and the anvil
And the delving of the soil,--
From the loom, the wharf, the warehouse,
And the ever-whirling mill,
Out of grim and hungry silence
Raise a weak voice small and shrill;--
Laborare est orare:
Man, dost hear us? God, He will.
We, who just can keep from starving
Sickly wives,--not always mild:
Trying not to curse Heaven's bounty
When it sends another child,--
We who, worn-out, doze on Sundays
O'er the Book we strive to read,
Cannot understand the parson
Or the catechism and creed.
Laborare est orare:--
Then, good sooth, we pray indeed.
We, poor women, feeble-natured,
Large of heart, in wisdom small,
Who the world's incessant battle
Cannot understand at all,
All the mysteries of the churches,
All the troubles of the state,--
Whom child-smiles teach 'God is loving,'
And child-coffins, 'God is great':
Laborare est orare:--
We too at His footstool wait.
Laborare est orare;
Hear it, ye of spirit poor,
Who sit crouching at the threshold
While your brethren force the door;
Ye whose ignorance stands wringing
Rough hands, scamed with toil, nor dares
Lift so much as eyes to Heaven,--
Lo! all life this truth declares,
Laborare est orare;
And the whole earth rings with prayers.
