No Work the Hardest Work.
Charles F. Orne.
Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,
And strike the sounding blow,
Where from the burning iron’s breast
The sparks fly to and fro,
While answering to the hammer’s ring,
And fire’s intenser glow—
Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.
Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil,
Whose hard hands guide the plow;
Who bend beneath the summer sun
With burning cheek and brow—
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth
From olden time till now;
But while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And labor all day through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.
Ho! ye who plow the sea’s blue field,
Who ride the restless wave;
Beneath whose gallant vessel’s keel
There lies a yawning grave;
Around whose bark the wintry winds
Like fiends of fury rave—
Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil
And labor long hours through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.
Ho! all who labor, all who strive,
Ye wield a mighty power;
Do with your might, do with your strength,
Fill every golden hour;
The glorious privilege to do
Is man’s most noble dower.
Oh, to your birthright and yourselves,
To your own souls be true!
A weary, wretched life is theirs
Who have no work to do.