Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/390

358   Call out again your long array,
 * In the olden merry manner!

Once more, on gay St. Crispin’s day,
 * Fling out your blazoned banner!

Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone
 * How falls the polished hammer!

Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown
 * A quick and merry clamor.

Now shape the sole! now deftly curl
 * The glossy vamp around it,

And bless the while the bright-eyed girl
 * Whose gentle fingers bound it!

For you, along the Spanish main
 * A hundred keels are ploughing;

For you, the Indian on the plain
 * His lasso-coil is throwing;

For you, deep glens with hemlock dark
 * The woodman’s fire is lighting;

For you, upon the oak’s gray bark,
 * The woodman’s axe is smiting.

For you, from Carolina’s pine
 * The rosin-gum is stealing;

For you, the dark-eyed Florentine
 * Her silken skein is reeling;

For you, the dizzy goatherd roams
 * His rugged Alpine ledges;

For you, round all her shepherd homes,
 * Bloom England’s thorny hedges.

The foremost still, by day or night,
 * On moated mound or heather,

Where’er the need of trampled right
 * Brought toiling men together;

Where the free burghers from the wall
 * Defied the mail-clad master,

Than yours, at Freedom’s trumpet-call,
 * No craftsmen rallied faster.

Let foplings sneer, let fools deride,
 * Ye heed no idle scorner;

Free hands and hearts are still your pride,
 * And duty done your honor.

Ye dare to trust, for honest fame,
 * The jury Time empanels,

And leave to truth each noble name
 * Which glorifies your annals.

Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet,
 * In strong and hearty German;

And Bloomfield’s lay, and Gifford’s wit,
 * And patriot fame of Sherman;

Still from his book, a mystic seer,
 * The soul of Behmen teaches,

And England’s priestcraft shakes to hear
 * Of Fox’s leathern breeches.

The foot is yours; where’er it falls,
 * It treads your well-wrought leather,

On earthen floor, in marble halls
 * On carpet, or on heather.

Still there the sweetest charm is found
 * Of matron grace or vestal’s,

As Hebe’s foot bore nectar round
 * Among the old celestials!

Rap, rap!—your stout and bluff brogan,
 * With footsteps slow and weary,

May wander where the sky’s blue span
 * Shuts down upon the prairie.

On Beauty’s foot your slippers glance,
 * By Saratoga’s fountains,

Or twinkle down the summer dance
 * Beneath the Crystal Mountains!

The red brick to the mason’s hand,
 * The brown earth to the tiller’s,

The shoe in yours shall wealth command,
 * Like fairy Cinderella’s!

As they who shunned the household maid
 * Beheld the crown upon her,

So all shall see your toil repaid
 * With hearth and home and honor.

Then let the toast be freely quaffed,
 * In water cool and brimming,—

“All honor to the good old Craft,
 * Its merry men and women!”

Call out again your long array,
 * In the old time’s pleasant manner:

Once more, on gay St. Crispin’s day,
 * Fling out his blazoned banner!

the seaward breezes
 * Sweep down the bay amain;

Heave up, my lads, the anchor!
 * Run up the sail again!

Leave to the lubber landsmen
 * The rail-car and the steed;

The stars of heaven shall guide us,
 * The breath of heaven shall speed.

From the hill-top looks the steeple,
 * And the lighthouse from the sand;