Morning Star

THE LABORER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

The laborer who toils amid bustle and dust,
To earn from the hard world his coat and his crust:
Imprisoned in mines, or in fields, or in shops,
He loveth the hour when the turmoil stops;

When the hammer and file, and the pick & the spade,
Are into the dusty corner laid;
He breathes the free air, and his heart is as light
As the wing of a swallow, on Saturday night.

Then the sun goeth down with a lovelier glow,
And the stars smile in peace on the broad earth below;
And the moon cometh up with a smile on her cheek,
On the night of all nights in the wearisome week.

Then the great world of labor stands resting as still
As the wheel when the stream is shut off from the mill;
And the water that toiled flows as calmly and bright
As the river of sleep on Saturday night.

They may tell of the joy that a conqueror feels
The moment his foeman surrendering, kneels;
Or the pleasure that thrills through a young maiden's breast,
When she heareth the voice which she loveth the best;

Or the joy of the sailor when climbing the shroud,
To see his own land looming up like a cloud;
But the laborer feels sure as deep a delight,
When his home smiles him welcome on Saturday night.

There kind looks await him, and voices of glee,
And little ones eager to climb on his knee;—
Or if he's no hearth where these dear ones are seen,
There are bright eyes awaiting him somewhere between.

Then blest be the hour which bringeth release,
And heralds the Sabbath, whose sunshine is peace;
And, oh! may the laborer's heart be as light,
When the world shall bring round his last Saturday night.