The Shipbuilders

The sky is ruddy in the east,     The earth is gray below,     And, spectral in the river-mist,     The ships white timbers show.     Then let the sounds of measured stroke     And grating saw begin;     The broad-axe to the gnarld oak,     The mallet to the pin!     Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast,     The sooty smithy jars,     And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,     Are fading with the stars.     All day for us the smith shall stand     Beside that flashing forge;     All day for us his heavy hand     The groaning anvil scourge.     From far-off hills, the panting team     For us is toiling near;     For us the raftsmen down the stream     Their island barges steer.     Rings out for us the axe-mans stroke     In forests old and still,     For us the century-circled oak     Falls crashing down his hill.     Up! up! in nobler toil than ours     No craftsmen bear a part:     We make of Natures giant powers     The slaves of human Art.     Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,     And drive the treenails free;     Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam     Shall tempt the searching sea!     Whereer the keel of our good ship     The seas rough field shall plough,     Whereer her tossing spars shall drip     With salt-spray caught below;     That ship must heed her masters beck,     Her helm obey his hand,     And seamen tread her reeling deck     As if they trod the land.     Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak     Of Northern ice may peel;     The sunken rock and coral peak     May grate along her keel;     And know we well the painted shell     We give to wind and wave,     Must float, the sailors citadel,     Or sink, the sailors grave!     Ho! strike away the bars and blocks,     And set the good ship free!     Why lingers on these dusty rocks     The young bride of the sea?     Look! how she moves adown the grooves,     In graceful beauty now!     How lowly on the breast she loves     Sinks down her virgin prow!     God bless-her! wheresoeer the breeze     Her snowy wing shall fan,     Aside the frozen Hebrides,     Or sultry Hindostan!     Whereer, 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,     For poison-draught for ours;     But honest fruits of toiling hands     And Natures sun and showers.     Be hers the Prairies golden grain,     The Deserts 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!