Come trial, pain, and disappointment’s shiver,
  Ye are my kindsmen—­brothers of this clay;
We must abide and I must bear the quiver
A little while, and we shall part forever—­
Beyond the surges of that shoreless river
  Ye cannot “come away.”

THE WORKING MAN’S SONG.

            Toil, toil, toil,
    Ever, unceasingly;
The sun gets up, and the sun goes down,
Alike in the city, in field or town,
    He brings fresh toil to me,
  And I ply my hard, rough hands
    With a heart as light and free
As the birds that greet my early plow,
Or the wind that fans my sunburnt brow
    In gusts of song and glee.

            Toil, toil, toil,
    Early, and on, and late: 
They may call it mean and of low degree,
But I smile to know that I’m strong and free,
    And the good alone are great. 
  ’Tis nature’s great command,
    And a pleasing task to me,
For true life is action and usefulness;
And I know an approving God will bless
    The toiler abundantly.

            Toil, toil, toil—­
    Glory awaits that word;
My arm is strong and my heart is whole,
And exult as I toil with manly soul
    That the voice of Truth is heard. 
  On, Comrades! faint not now—­
    Ours is a manly part! 
Toil, for a glorious meed is ours—­
The fulcrum of all earthly powers
    Is in our hands and heart.

            Toil, toil, toil—­
    Life is labor and love: 
Live, love and labor is then our song,
Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng,
    With our Architect above. 
  Then monuments will stand
    That need no polish’d rhyme—­
Firm as the everlasting hills,
High as the clarion note that swells
    The “praises of all time.”

ODE TO DEATH.

      I do not fear thee, Death! 
I have a bantering thought!—­though I am told
Thou art inflexible, and stern, and bold;
      And that thy upas breath
      Rides on the vital air;
Monarch and Prince of universal clime,
Executor of the decrees of Time—­
      Sin’s dark, eternal heir.

      Over the land and sea
Is felt the swooping of thy ebon wings,
And on my ear thy demon-chuckle rings,
Over the feast the panting summer brings,
      “For me—­’tis all for me!”
      All seasons and all climes—­
In city crowded, and in solitude,
Ye gather your unsatisfying food;
Ev’n through the rosy gates of joy intrude
      Thy deep, sepulchral chimes.

      I know thee well, though young;
Thrice, ruthlessly, this little circle broke
Hast thou.  A brother, sister—­then the Oak,
(Ah, hadst thou spared that last and hardest stroke,)
      Round which our young hopes clung! 
      Ye wantonly have crush’d,
By your untimely and avenging frost,
The buds of hope which bid to promise most;
Oh! had ye known the heart-consuming cost,
      Could ye, O!  Death have hush’d