The Laborer

Stand up—erect! Thou hast the form And likeness of thy God!—Who more? A soul as dauntless ’mid the storm Of daily life, a heart as warm And pure, as breast e’er wore. What then?—Thou art as true a man As moves the human mass among; As much a part of the great plan That with creation’s dawn began, As any of the throng. Who is thine enemy? The high In station, or in wealth the chief? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye? Nay! nurse not such belief. If true unto thyself thou wast, What were the proud one’s scorn to thee? A feather which thou mightest cast Aside, as idly as the blast The light leaf from the tree. No: uncurbed passions, low desires, Absence of noble self-respect, Death, in the breast’s consuming fires, To that high nature which aspires Forever, till thus checked;— These are thine enemies—thy worst: They chain thee to thy lowly lot; Thy labor and thy life accursed. O, stand erect, and from them burst, And longer suffer not. Thou art thyself thine enemy: The great!—what better they than thou? As theirs is not thy will as free? Has God with equal favors thee Neglected to endow? True, wealth thou hast not—’t is but dust; Nor place—uncertain as the wind; But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water, may despise the lust Of both—a noble mind. With this, and passions under ban, True faith, and holy trust in God, Thou art the peer of any man. Look up then; that thy little span Of life may be well trod.