for the past, but gladdens in the present, and sings a holy song, like one of the songs of Zion; for both trust that, ere the sun brings another summer, their feet will be wandering by the waters of eternal life. Thus haply might arise verse and air of Scotland's old pathetic melodies." But our concern at this moment is not with songs in general, but with Song in its connection with Industry; and the catalogue of songs of all the trades of late years is a large one. And to which of the pursuits of Industry can we turn, and not find food for the imagination?-the sailor who unfurls his sails and spreads them like the pinions of some glorious bird making a highway for nations over the seas, mapping the course of civilization :—the Woodman felling the tall tree of the forest, and thus laying in the wild and inaccessible regions of Nature the foundations of a future city-the Miner who, from the bowels of the earth, extracts iron, the most precious of all metals; and coal, one of the most precious of all blessings.From immemorial ages, a blessing has been pronounced upon the Plough and "the jolly dusty Miller," long before the paddles of steam-revolving wheels and clattering pistons were set in motion, when the wind or water was compelled into the service of the mill-and the Blacksmith, hammer in hand-and the Fisherman, coasting out upon the waters, and the poor pining Weaver at his loom ;-in these, and in all the thousand operations of toil, wherever Man is asserting his dominion over Nature; there is a theme for song :nay, this is the substance of all song-for all song is of the nature of triumph; and all labour is the conquest of Man-the reduction of disorder to harmony and proportion. Let us look at a few of these Lyrics of Labour. Longfellow sings the Blacksmith D "Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low. Toiling,―rejoicing;-sorrowing— Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begun,— Something attempted-something done- "Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend! Thus at the flaming forge of Life, Far away from the sound of the blacksmith's hammer, from the still and blessed retreat of inland villages-out, out, upon the briny deep, the Fisherman of Whittier sings in a different strain,— "There we'll drop our lines, and gather Where'er the mottled mackerel We will reap the North-land's harvest, "Our wet hands spread the carpet, And light the hearth of home: "In the darkness, as the daylight,— God's eye is looking on us, And beneath us is His hand: Than in working out our lot." It is the same noble-hearted and clear-voiced American singer who chaunts in true poetry the praise of Shoemakers, "Rap, rap! your stout and bluff brogan! With footsteps slow and weary, May wander where the sky's blue span Your slippers shine on Beauty's foot By Saratoga's fountain, Or lead, like snow-flakes falling mute, "The red brick to the mason's hand, The shoe, in yours, shall wealth command, As they, who spurn'd the household maid, So all shall see your toil repaid With hearth, and home, and honour. "Then let the toast be freely quaffed In the old time's pleasant manner; One other of these labour chaunts, and this selection from Barry Cornwall. THE WEAVER'S SONG. “Weave, brothers, weave !—Swiftly throw And show us how brightly your flowers grow, Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes, The violet, deep as your true loves' eyes, Sing, brothers, sing! weave and sing! "Weave, brothers, weave !-Weave, and bid Let grace in each gliding thread be hid, Let beauty about you blow ! Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine, And time nor chance shall your work untwine, So-sing, &c. "Weave, brothers, weave !-Toil is ours; But toil is the lot of man. One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers, There is not a creature, from England's king To the peasant that delves the soil, That knows half the pleasure the seasons bring, So-sing, &c." But the glories of labour have been celebrated in altogether another manner: these which we have cited might well be set to music, and thundered or lilted at the forge, or on the deck-at the loom, or in the stall. But the songs of other writers have made labour truly dramatic. Each of the varying actions become a symbol of something higher; the shadow of the Infinite may be seen over and through all the weavings of the workers; the scund and the action have been caught by some writers, and the roll, roar, and tramp of the machinery; and the mechanics live most vividly in the verses. To this "The Forging of the Anchor," by Fergusson, approaches; nay more-in its vehemency, it blazes, and rushes, and roars; the flames pant and heave with the energy of the strong flame, and the victorious blacksmith. |