SONG OF THE MALLET.

Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!
Out in the blazing sun,
Toiling and sweating

Out in the stone-yard,
Musing, forgetting.

Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!
Under the smiting sun

A thousand years ago
Once stood a Master,
Mallet swinging so.

Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!
What did he muse on?
Honor and fame,

Or genius, burning bright,
Bursting to flame?

Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!
Watch how the chips fly,
Broken and rotten,

Onto the earth they fall,
Useless, forgotten.

Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!
Watch how stone takes form
Slowly, in beauty; .
Wrought with love divine

No thought of duty.

Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!
We, thus, form our lives,
Hewing the stone—

Some are the chips that fall
To the earth—alone.

OS ae aL a a ee eA ES
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