But laugh, O, Labor, dry thy tears!
A better day is drawing nigh;
Hope brightens all the somber sky;
The golden age of Love is near!
Behold! But yonder stands a Star!
The ancient lies are downward hurled;
A man—a child—is greater far
Than all the wealth of all the world!
“LOVE, THOU GAYEST FANCY-WEAVER.”
Love, thou gayest fancy-weaver,
Come with all thy clinging kisses;
Bringing all thy beaming blisses;
It may serve the cynic’s parts,
If he curse and if he scout thee,
But, O, where were gentle hearts,
If they had to live without thee!
Weave the spells of thy beguiling
’Round and ’round me with thy smiling,
Till the ashen cheek is beaming,
And the faded eye is gleaming;
Millions may endure the fight
In the battle vain to end thee,
But when taste they thy delight
They will serve thee and defend thee.
Bring thy little winsome graces
And the sweets of glad embraces,
Till the pleasures all are dancing
Into mazy whirls entrancing;
It may please the icy breast
To despise thee and distress thee,
But the burning hearts find rest
When they bless thee and caress thee.
Send thy gladness, laughing rover,
All my sorrows o’er and over,
Till the strains of happy pleasure
Mingle in melodious measure;
It may give a transient glee
To condemn thy ways and sever,
But the sweets of melody
Thou wilt murmur on forever.
Bind my heart in silken chaining,
Till from thee is none remaining;
Clothe my soul in glad completeness
Of thy happiness and sweetness;
When the times are true, the soul
May not hunger for thy gladness,
But when surging sorrows roll
Thou alone shall banish sadness.
Let nations encircle the brows of the
With glory the greatest that glitters below,
Who make in the blood of the battle a grave
For all that are found in the ranks of the foe;
But I from the greatness, the grandeur, and gleam,
Would turn to the light of clear-glowing hearth,
And choose from his joy for the soul of my theme
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.
Let millions give worship to riches and
That gay in their brilliancy sparkle and gleam,
And serve with the hands of their happiest health
The haughty who idle and revel and dream;
In hall or in hamlet, in cottage or cave,
Or sickened with sorrow or maddened with mirth,
There’s none I shall serve with the will of a slave
But the farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.