Poems (Trask)/Work!

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

WORK!

Laggard! thou'rt sitting idly,
 With useless folded hands,—
Unmindful of the desert spots
 And wastes of barren lands.
Up! rouse from this dead stupor,
 And gird thine armor on!
When once a firm resolve is made,
 Full half the battle's won!

What right hast thou to squander
 The talents God has sent?
What right in rust to bury
 The powers He has lent?
Do battle bravely, ever,
 In stern defense of right,
And carve in faith a shining way
 Up to the hills of light.

The whole world calls for labor!
 There is a thirsty dearth
Of earnest, working Christian souls,
 Throughout this wide-spread earth;
A lack of strong-armed pioneers
 To break the ranks of sin,
And woo to Virtue's safe retreat
 The footsore wanderer in.

Up from this dull supineness!
 Up with a righteous trust!
Why in this aimless, idle life
 Let noble talents rust?
Work while the day endureth,
 Work ere the night shall come;
At evening, when the shadows fall,
 God calls his servants home.