Iv

Man, born to toil, in his labour rejoiceth; His voice is heard in the morn: He armeth his hand and sallieth forth To engage with the generous teeming earth, And drinks from the rocky rills The laughter of life.

Or else, in crowded cities gathering close, He traffics morn and eve In thronging market-halls; Or within echoing walls Of busy arsenals Weldeth the stubborn iron to engines vast; Or tends the thousand looms Where, with black smoke o'ercast, The land mourns in deep glooms.

Life is toil, and life is good: There in loving brotherhood Beateth the nation's heart of fire. Strife! Strife! The strife is strong! There battle thought and voice, and spirits conspire In joyous dance around the tree of life, And from the ringing choir Riseth the praise of God from hearts in tuneful song.