Whose trunk is seamed with lightning scars,
Toil launches on the restless tide,
And there unrolls the flag of stars;
The engine with its lungs of flame,
And ribs of brass and joints of steel,
From Labor’s plastic fingers came,
With sobbing valve and whirling wheel.
’Tis Labor works the magic press,
And turns the crank in hives of toil,
And beckons angels down to bless