The Mechanic.

Mechanics!  whose toil is the wealth of a nation

  Whose breasts are its bulwarks when danger is nigh-

Though humble your lot, and despised your vocation

  You have honour and worth that the world cannot buy

The minions of wealth may affect to despise you

  Pronouncing you ignorant, sorid, and base       [you,

But the moment will come that shall teach them to prize

  The scorn they have written, themselves shall erase.

Not theirs is the hand that can turn back the billows

  That threatens to sweep o’er our altars and homes;

They may live in the breeze that plays with the willow

  But woe unto them, when the hurricane comes.     [low,

They must call upon you in the moment of danger,

  When the war-banners spreads its rude folds to the air,

When our homes are assailed by the hands of a stranger,

  And valleys re-echo with cries of depair.

Where of Romes faded granduer her ruins are telling,

  When Athens proud temples reflect back the sun,

In Palmyra’s streets-now the jackel’s tone dwelling-

  Are recorded the triumphs by industry won.

There is not a nation where science has flourished,

  There is not a land where the arts have adorned,

But your valour has guarded-your industry nourished-

  Through glory and shame-tho’degraded and scorned.

Your labor in piece, like a bright living fountain,

  Sends rivers of wealth to replenish the earth,

And in war, like the storm-beaten rock of the mountain,

  You ward of the blast from the land of your birth,

But when peace, like the sun, o’er your country is shining,

  For the wealth you bestow the repay you with sneers,

And the wounds you have borne in her cause unrepining,

  Ingraditude bathes with adversit’s tears.

When the herald of fame, in the anunals of story,

  The deeds of a hero proclaim through the land,

The monuments raised to emblazen his glory,

  And the deeds they record- are the works of your hand.

But what your reward when the conflict is ended?

  Or where is your niche in the temple of fame?

The laurals you won, with another are blended,

  And darkness still rests on the artizans name.

Yet bow not your hearts to the proud man’s reviling,

  More noble in sorrow, than he in his pride;

At each mark of disdain with true dignity smiling,

  Your acts will rebuke when your lot they deride.

Let hope cheer your path the despised and neglected,

  Be virtue your shiel when temtation is nigh;

By honour’s bright code, be your actions directed,

  Deserve and demand the respect they deny.

Then high be your aim, for the portals of glory,

  By freedom unbarr’d, now disclose to the view

A tablet, whereon to emblazon your story,

  An urn for the tears to your memory due.

When your country’s proud star through futurity shining,

  Beams bright with the deeds her children have done,

May the **liest wreath ‘round her **adem twining,

  Be that which her toil-worn mechanics have won.