On Charles Lamb's Sonnet, "Work."

"Who first invented work?" asks Elia, he
Whose life to an ungenial task was wed,
And answers, "Satan"; but it could not be -
On idleness his foul ambition fed;
By idleness the heavenly domiciles
Were lost to him and all his idle crew;
In idleness he hatches all his wiles,
And mischief finds for idle hands to do.

His business ever was to scamp and shirk,
And scout the task that too ignoble seemed,
And in snug corners serpentlike to lurk
Where no one of his presence ever dreamed;
He never knew the zest of honest work,
Nor ever shall, or he would be redeemed.

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

Milton.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Short Days.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Three Hundredth Anniversary Of Milton's Birth.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Revolution In Russia.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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Work.

Not to the Arch-Idler be the honor given
Of first inventing work, but to his Lord,
Who made the light, the firmament of heaven,
And sun and moon and planets in accord,
The land and cattle on it, and the sea
And fish therein, and flying fowl in air,
And grass and herb and fair fruit-yielding tree,
And man, His own similitude to wear;

Whose works are old and yet for ever new,
Who all sustains with providential sway,
Whose Son, "My Father worketh hitherto
And I work," said, and ere He went away,
"Finished the work thou gavest me to do,"
And unto us, "Work ye while it is day."

W. M. MacKeracher

Idleness.

The street was brisk, an animated scene,
And every man was on some business bent,
Absorbed in some employment or intent,
Pre-occupied, intelligent and keen.
True, some were dwarf'd and some were pale and lean.
But to the sorriest visage Labor lent
A light, transfiguring with her sacrament
The abject countenance and slavish mien.

But one - he shambled aimlessly along
Asham'd, and shrunk from the abstracted ken
    Of passers-by with conscience-struck recoil,
A pariah, a leper in the throng,
An alien from the commonwealth of men,
    A stranger to the covenant of toil.

W. M. MacKeracher

The Lay Of The Laborer.

A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will -
And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labor's rugged school.

To hedge, or dig the ditch,
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.

To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
A-glowing on the ...

Thomas Hood

Sonnets. XVI

When I consider how my light is spent,
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.

John Milton

The Workhouse Clock. - An Allegory.

There's a murmur in the air,
And noise in every street -
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of numerous feet -
While round the Workhouse door
The Laboring Classes flock,
For why? the Overseer of the Poor
Is setting the Workhouse Clock.

Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along
Of either sex and various stamp,
Sickly, cripple, or strong,
Walking, limping, creeping
From court and alley, and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping
Like rivers that seek the main?

Who does not see them sally
From mill, and garret, and room,
In lane, and court and alley,
From homes in poverty's lowest valley,
Furnished with shuttle and loom -
Poor slaves of Civilization's galley -
And in the road and footways rally,
As ...

Thomas Hood

Ode To Work In Springtime

Oh, would that working I might shun,
    From labour my connection sever,
That I might do a bit - or none
    Whatever!

That I might wander over hills,
    Establish friendship with a daisy,
O'er pretty things like daffodils
    Go crazy!

That I might at the heavens gaze,
    Concern myself with nothing weighty,
Loaf, at a stretch, for seven days -
    Or eighty.

Why can't I cease a slave to be,
    And taste existence beatific
On some fair island, hid in the
    Pacific?

Instead of sitting at a desk
    'Mid undone labours, grimly lurking -
Oh, say, what is there picturesque
    In working?

But no! - to loaf were misery! -
    I love to work! Hang isles of coral!
(To end this otherwise would be
...

Thomas R. Ybarra