The Laborer and the Warrior

The Laborer and the Warrior

The camp has had its day of song;

The sword, the bayonet, the plume,

Have crowded out of song too long

The plow, the anvil, and the loom

Oh! not upon our tented fields

Are freedom's heroes bred alone;

The training of the workshop yields

More heroes true than war has known.

Who drives the bolts, who shapes the steel,

May with a heart as valiant smite,

As he who sees the foeman reel

In blood before his blow of might.

The skill that conquers space and time,

That grnces life, that sweetens toil

May spring from courage more sublime

Than that which makes a realm its spoil.

Let labor then, look up and see,

His craft no path of honor decks;

The soldier's title yet shall be

Less honored than the woodman's axe.

Let each his own appointment prize,

Nor deem that gold, or outward might,

Can compensate the wealth that lies,

In tastes which breed their own delight.

And may the time draw nearer still

When man this sacred truth shall heed,

That from the thought, and from the will

Must all that raises man proceed!

Though pride shall hold our calling low,

For us shall duty make it good;

And we from truth to truth shall go,

Till life and death are understood.

Unattributed

1:32, p. 4

2.25.1860