The camp has had its day of song;
The sword, the bayonet, the plume
Have crowded out of rhyme too long
The plough, the anvil and the loom!
O, not upon our tented fields
Are Freedom's heroes bred alone;
The training of the work-shop yields
More heroes true than War has known!
Who drives the bolt, who shapes the steel,
May, with a heart as valiant, smite,
As he, who sees a foeman reel
In blood before his blow of might!
The skill that conquers space and time,
That graces life, that lightens toil,
May spring from courage more sublime
Than that, which makes a realm its spoil.
Let, Labor, then, look up and see,
His craft no pith of honor lacks;
The soldier's rifle yet shall be
Less honored than the woodman's axe!
Let Art his own appointment prize,
Nor deem that gold or outward height
Can compensate the worth that lies
In tastes that breed their own delight.
And may the time draw nearer still
When men this sacred truth shall heed,
That from the thought and from the will
Must all that raises man proceed!
Though Pride should hold our calling low,
For us shall duty make it good;
And we from truth to truth shall go
Till life and death are understood.