THE SHOEMAKERS.

Or sultry Hindostan!
Where'er, in mart or on the main,

With peaceful flag unfurled,
She helps to wind the silken chain

Of commerce round the world!

Speed on the ship !—But let her bear

No merchandise of sin,
No groaning cargo of despair

Her roomy hold within.
No Lethean drug for Eastern lands,

Nor poison-draught for ours; But honest fruits of toiling hands

And Nature's sun and showers.

Be hers the Prairie's golden grain,

The Desert's golden sand, The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,

The spice of Morning-land!
Her pathway on the open main

May blessings follow free,
And glad hearts welcome back again

Her white sails from the sea I

THE SHOEMAKERS.

Ho! workers of the old time styled

The Gentle Craft of Leather ! ^ Young brothers of the ancient guild,

Stand forth once more together 1
Call out again your long array,

In the olden merry manner I
Once more, on gay St Crispin's day,

Fling out your blazoned banner I

Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone
How falls the polished hammer 1

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-eyecfr girl

Whose gentle fingers bound it I

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 goafr-herd 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 youi pride.

And duty done, your honor. Ye dare to trust, for honest fame,

I HE SHOEMAKERS

The jury Time empanels,
And leave to truth each noble name
Which glorifies your annals.

Thy so*ngs, Han 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 1 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 1

THE DROVERS.

Through heat and cold, and shower and son,

Still onward cheerly driving! There's life alone in duty done,

And rest alone in striving. But see! the day is closing cool,

The woods are dim before us; The white fog of the way-side pool

Is creeping slowly o'er us.

The night is falling, comrades mine,

Our foot-sore beasts are weary,
And through yon elms the tavern sign

Looks out upon us cheery.
The landlord beckons from his door,

His beechen fire is glowing;
These ample barns, with feed in store,

Are filled to overflowing.

From many a valley frowned across

By brows of rugged mountains;
From hill-sides where, through spongy moss,

Gush out the river fountains;
From quiet farm-fields, green and low,

And bright with blooming clover;
From vales of corn the wandering crow

No richer hovers over;

THE DROVERS. l\

Day after day our way has been,

O'er many a hill and hollow;
By lake and stream, by wood and glen,

Our stately drove we follow.
Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun,

As smoke of battle o'er us,
Their white horns glisten in the sun,

Like plumes and crests before us.

We see them slowly climb the hill,

As slow behind it sinking;
Or, thronging close, from road-side rill,

Or sunny lakelet, drinking.
Now crowding in the narrow road,

In thick and struggling masses,
They glare upon the teamster's load,

Or rattling coach that passes.

Anon, with toss of horn and tail,

And paw of hoof, and bellow,
They leap some farmer's broken pale,

O'er meadow-close or fallow.
Forth comes the startled, good-man; fofcth

Wife, children, house-dog, sally,
Till once more on their dusty path

The baffled truants rally.

We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown,

Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony, Like those who grind their noses down

On pastures bare and stony— Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs,

And cows too lean for shadows, Disputing feebly with the frogs

The crop of saw-grass meadows!

In our good drove, so sleek and fair,

No bones of leanness rattle;
No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there,

Qr Pharaoh's evil cattle.