THE SONG OF THE SHOVEL Down on creation's muck-pile where the sinful swelter and sweat, Where the scum of the earth foregather, rough and untutored yet, Where they swear in the six-foot spaces, or toil in the barrow squad, The men of unshaven faces, the ranks of the very bad; Where the brute is more than the human, the muscle more than the mind, Where their gods are the loud-voiced gaffers, rugged, uncouth, unkind; Where the rough of the road are roosting, where the failed and the fallen be, There have we met in the ditchway, there have I plighted with thee, The wage-slave troth of our union, and found thee true to my trust, Stoic in loveless labor, companion when beggared and burst, Wonderful navvy shovel, last of tools and the first. Your grace is the grace of a woman, you 're strong as the oak is strong; Wonderful unto the navvy, the navvy who sings your song Forever patient, and ready to do what your master bids, Though you labored at Beni Hassan, and wrought at the Pyramids, Uprearing the Grecian Temple, the gold Byzantium dome, The palaces proud of Susa, the legended walls of Rome, In the earliest days of Egypt, in evil-starred Nineveh, When your masters who be were whirling, inane in the Milky Way, In Pompeii of the sorrows, ere the lava of hate was hurled From the fiery mouth of the mountain, in the passionate days of the world. Wonderful, ancient shovel, tool of the labor slave! To you the sparkle of silver the hammer and furnace gave; For you the virginal forest was stripped of its stateliest trees, And you have the temper that flame has, and you have the graces of these. Athens and Rome have known you, London and Paris know; You'll raise the towns of the future when the towns of the present go. A race will esteem and praise you in the days that are to be, When I am silent and songless and the headstone crumbles on me! Wonderful navvy shovel, the days are near at hand When you'll rise o'er sword and sceptre, a mighty power in the land. PATRICK MACGILL THE MAN WITH THE HOE (Written after seeing Millet's painting of a brutalized toiler) BOWED by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed More filled with signs and portents for the soul— More packt with danger to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quencht? Give back the upward looking and the light; O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, (Copyright by Edwin Markham, 1899, 1924) EDWIN MARKHAM FACTORY LIFE My little son, one day you 'll go Here there are chimney-stacks for trees, The landmark of a barren land Now put your cheek to mine, my dear; To range the moors and wealds; When you shall know how sweet is June Indeed, my son, I cannot tell Whose grass is mostly black; None knows what unseen masters make I too am keen to leave this grime But you, at least your wings shall try, You'll laugh and play for me. ROLAND THIRLMERE (From My Dog Blanco and Other Poems, published by Erskine Macdonald, London) THE PIONEER LONG years ago I blazed a trail Through lovely woods unknown till then, |