THE MAN WITHOUT THE HOE.
By Jane Haskell
Bowed by the weight of indolence, he leans Upon his selfish vanity, and looks On those that toil with unappreciative eyes; A form bearded and strong, yet lacking all That makes the man; a gilded frame rifled Of master-piece—the beauteous touch that holds The heart and eye; a sluggard's mind that sleeps And hears no music in the shuttle's song, And feels no flush of joy from labor done. Idly he sits within the world's wide door, And heeds no lesson from the passing throng Of earthly workers, or the ceaseless round Of heaven's bright orbs. Unnatural servitor, Crowning with shame the reaper's hallowed brow, Walking through barren fields, yet sowing not, The weeds of famine rank along his path. Who feeds the helpless babes? Who wipes away The grievous tear? Who leads the sick and blind? Who builds protecting roofs? Who cleaves the hills, And lays the forest low, and towers to heaven The temples of man's love? Who dwells within His father's house in honor? Who? Not he Who gives the flush of shame for labor's hire; Not he, who, with soft cunning, wiles the fruits Of others' toiling to bespread his feast. O, pity for the vapid one that sleeps, And dreams an empty dream, and crushes 'neath His slothful weight the children of his soul. Stern Justice, while she cuts the smiting rod, Will drop a tear. Ah, vain, benighted slave Of weak effeminate impotency, Mincing his way with shackled feet and hands, Breathing death's blight around the tree of life! “Is this the thing the Lord God made, and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity?” Mother of industry, earnest and great, With fulness of thy busy days, how brook Thy face to smile upon this errant child; Ungrateful one, wasting thy golden hours And throwing scornful shadows at thy feet, Unmindful of thy wondrous handiwork? On the last day, when He, the glorified, Enthroned on heaven's down-rolling cloud shall come, And multitudes look upward to His face, And multitudes bow down their heads, denied, Shall he, whose idle feet have never trod The Master's way, look upward on that day?