Moral.

   These farmers and mechanics, here,
   Much like the little brook appear;
   Reared ’midst fair Franklin’s hills and dells,
   Where proud ambition seldom dwells;
   They view their hands for labor made,
   And think that God should be obeyed;
   Then grasp the plough and till the soil—­
   It yields rich fruit, and corn, and oil,
   By which the multitude are fed. 
   And blessings o’er the land are spread. 
   Mechanics next should take a stand
   Beside the yeoman of our land;
   Where’er enlightened men are found,
   They’re showering blessings all around. 
   Yet time would fail should I rehearse
   Their brave exploits, in simple verse;
   But there’s a class, (I hope not here,)
   Who, like the boasting oak, appear;
   They think their hands were never made
   To wield the distaff, plough, or spade;—­
   Their taper fingers, soft and fair,
   Are made to twine their silken hair,
   Or place upon a brow of snow,
   Their gold and diamond rings, to show. 
   Their dainty lips can sip ice-cream,
   Or open with convulsive scream,
   Whene’er they meet the farmer’s cow,
   The ox, or steer, which draws the plough. 
   Should the mechanic’s labor cease,
   ’Twould wound their pride—­destroy their peace;
   Their flaunting garments, light and frail,
   Would quickly fade, wear out and fail. 
   Soon, soon, they’d come with humbled pride,
   To him whom they could once deride,
   To ask a shelter from the storm,
   And clothes to keep their bodies warm. 
   Should farmers their rich stores withhold,
   Their lily hands would soon grow cold;—­
   No more their lips would curl with scorn,
   At him who grows and brings them corn;—–­
   You’d see them kneeling at his feet,
   To beg for something more to eat;
   And plead with him their lives to save,
   And snatch them from an opening grave.

   Now let us, like the little brook
     We’ve heard of in the fable,
   Employ our hearts, our heads and hands,
     In doing what we’re able;
   Till all Columbia praise our deeds,
     And nations, o’er the waters,
   Will tune their harps and chant their song,
     For Franklin’s sons and daughters.

A HYMN.

Composed for A donation gathering.

   The armies of Isr’el round Mount Sinai stood,
   And heard, ’midst its thunders, the voice of their God;
   All silent and awe-struck they heard the command—­
   “Bring unto the Lord the first fruits of your land.”

   These words are as sacred, their import the same—­
   As when they came pealing through Sinai’s dread flame,—­
   The banner of Jesus should soon be unfurled,
   And waving in triumph all over the world.

   Salvation’s glad tidings!  Oh send them abroad! 
   And tell the poor pagan that there is a God! 
   Let those who are toiling in dark heathen lands,
   Find Christians all ready to strengthen their hands.