THE SONG OF THE SAW
The song is the shriek of the strong that are
slain,
—The monarchs that people the woodlands of
Maine;
—‘Tis the cry of a merciless war.
And it echoes by river, by lake, and by stream,
Wherever saws scream or the bright axes gleam,
—‘Tis keyed to the sibilant rush of the steam,
And the song is the song of the saw.
Come stand in the gloom of this clamorous
room,
Where giants groan past us a-drip from the
boom,
Borne here from the calm of the forest and hill,
—Aghast at the thunderous roar of the mill,
At rumble of pulley and grumble of shaft
And the tumult and din of the sawyer’s rude
craft.
Stand here in the ebb of the riotous blast,
As the saw’s mighty carriage goes thundering
past,
One man at the lever and one at the dog.
The slaughter is bloodless and senseless the
log,
Yet the anguish of death and the torment of
hell
Are quavering there in the long, awful yell,
That shrills above tumult of gearing and wheel
As the carriage rolls down and the timber meets
steel.
Scream! And a board is laid bare for a home.
Shriek! And a timber for mansion and dome,
For the walls of a palace, or toil’s homely use,
Is reft from the flanks of the prostrate King
Spruce.
And thus in the clamor of pulley and wheel,
In the plaint of the wood and the slash of the
steel,
Is wrought the undoing of Maine’s sturdy lords,
—The martyrs the woodlands yield up to our
swords.
The song is the knell of these strong that are
slain,
The monarchs that people the woodlands of
Maine.
And the Fury that whirls in the din of this
war,
With rioting teeth and insatiable maw, is the
saw!
And this is the song of the saw.