And each one prayed for a strong steel blade, As the crown of his desire.

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,

Till they shouted loud for glee,

And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,

And spoils of the forest free.

And they sang-"Hurrah for Tubal Cain,

Who hath given us strength anew!

Hurrah for the smith!

Hurrah for the fire!

And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart,

Ere the setting of the sun;

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain

For the evil he had done.

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind;

And land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage, blind.

And he said "Alas! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe;

And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smoldered low.

But he rose at last with a cheerful face,

And a bright courageous eye,

And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang "Hurrah for my handiwork!”
As the red sparks lit the air;

Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,

As he fashioned the First Plowshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the Past,

In friendship joined their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And plowed the willing lands;

And sang

"Hurrah for Tubal Cain!

Our stanch good friend is he.

And for the Plowshare and the Plow

To him our praise shall be.
But while Oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the Plow,

We'll not forget the Sword!"

CHARLES MACKAY

VICTORY

THEY only the victory win,

Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the

demon that tempts us within;

Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;

Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight, if need be,

to die.

WILLIAM W. STORY

THE CORN SONG

HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard!

Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,

The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine.

We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,
Our plows their furrows made,

While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain

The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,

And waved in hot midsummer's noon
Its soft and yellow hair.

And now with autumn's moonlit eves,

Its harvest time has come;
We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There richer than the fabled gift
Apollo' showered of old,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.

*

Then shame on all the proud and vain,

Whose folly laughs to scorn

The blessing of our hardy grain,

Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,

Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
The wheat field to the fly :

But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us for His golden corn,

Send up our thanks to God!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

1 Apollo, the Grecian god of the sun. The reference is to the story that he covered the isle of Delos, his native place, with flowers of gold.