But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang--"Hurra for my handiwork!"
And the red sparks lit the air;
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;"
And he fashion'd the First Plough-share!
And men, taught wisdom from the Past,
In friendship join'd their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And plough'd the willing lands;
And sang--"Hurra for Tubal Cain!
Our staunch good friend is he;
And for the ploughshare and the plough
To him our praise shall be.
But while Oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the Plough,
We'll not forget the Sword!"
THE THREE PREACHERS.
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
There are three preachers, ever preaching,
Fill'd with eloquence and power:--
One is old, with locks of white,
Skinny as an anchorite;
And he preaches every hour
With a shrill fanatic voice,
And a bigot's fiery scorn:--
"Backward! ye presumptuous nations;
Man to misery is born!
Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer--
Born to labour and to pray;
Backward!' ye presumptuous nations--
Back!--be humble and obey!"
The second is a milder preacher;
Soft he talks as if he sung;
Sleek and slothful is his look,
And his words, as from a book,
Issue glibly from his tongue.
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