Ode (1850) (Sargent)

The camp has had its day of song;The sword, the bayonet, the plumeHave crowded out of rhyme too longThe plough, the anvil and the loom!O, not upon our tented fieldsAre Freedom's heroes bred alone;The training of the work-shop yieldsMore 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 reelIn blood before his blow of might!The skill that conquers space and time,That graces life, that lightens toil,May spring from courage more sublimeThan 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 beLess honored than the woodman's axe!Let Art his own appointment prize,Nor deem that gold or outward heightCan compensate the worth that liesIn tastes that breed their own delight.

And may the time draw nearer stillWhen men this sacred truth shall heed,That from the thought and from the willMust 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 goTill life and death are understood.