WHEREFORE idle?—when the harvest beckoning,
Nods its ripe tassels to the brightening sky?
Arise and labour ere the time of reckoning,
Ere the long shadows and the night draw night.
Wherefore idle?—Swing the sickle stoutly!
Bind thy rich sheaves exultingly and fast!
Nothing dismayed, do thy great task devoutly—
Patient and strong, and hopeful to the last!
Wherefore idle?—Labour, not inaction,
Is the soul's birthright, and its truest rest;
Up to thy work!—It is Nature's fit exaction—
He who toils humblest, bravest, toils the best.
Wherefore idle?—God himself is working;
His great thought wearieth not, nor standeth still,
In every throb of his vast heart is lurking
Some mighty purpose of his mightier will.
Wherefore idle?—Not a leaf's slight rustle
But chides thee in thy vain, inglorious rest;
Be a strong actor in the great world,—bustle,—
Not a, weak minion or a pampered guest!
Wherefore idle?—Oh I my faint soul, wherefore?
Shake first from thine own powers dull sloth's control;
Then lift thy voice with an exulting “Therefore
Thou, too, shalt conquer, oh, thou striving soul!”