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Thy creations round thee see—
All thy work, but naught for thee!
Yes, of all the chains alone
Thy hand forged, these are thine own.
Chains that round the body cling.
Chains that lame the spirit's wing,
Chains that infants' feet, indeed,
Clog! O, workman! Lo! Thy meed.
What ye rear and bring to light,
Profits by the idle wight,
What ye weave of diverse hue,
'Tis a curse—your only due.
What ye build, no room insures,
Not a sheltering roof to yours,
And by haughty ones are trod—
Ye, who toil their feet hath shod.
Human bees! Has nature's thrift
Given thee naught but honey's gift?
See! the drones are on the wing.
Have you lost the will to sing?
Man of labor, up, arise!
Know the might that in thee lies,
Wheel and shaft are set at rest
At they powerful arm's behest.
Thine oppressor's hand recoils
When thou, weary of they toils,
Shun'st thy plough; thy task begun
When thou speak'st: Enough is done!
Break this two-fold yoke in twain;
Break thy want's enslaving chain;
Break thy slavery's want and dread;
Bread is freedom, freedom bread.
That poem epitomizes the aspirations, the hope, the need of the working classes, not alone of America, but of the civilized world.
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