by John Critchley Prince (uncredited).
Originally published in Household Words (Bradbury & Evans) vol.5 #117 (19 Jun 1852).
Albeit for lack of bread we die,
Die in a hundred nameless ways—
'Tis not for bread alone we cry,
In these our later days.
It is not fit that man should spend
His strength of frame, his length of years,
In toiling for that daily end—
Mere bread, oft wet with tears.
That is not wholly good or gain
Which seals the mind and sears the heart,
The life-long labour to sustain
Man's perishable part.
His is the need, and his the right
Of leisure, free from harsh control,
That he may seek for mental light,
And cultivate his soul;
Leisure to foster into bloom
Affections struggling to expand;
So shall his thought, with ampler room,
Improve his skill of hand.
And he should look with reverent eyes,
Sometimes, on Nature's open page;
Not solely are the wondrous skies
For school-man and for sage.
Earth's flower-hues blush, heav'n's star-lights burn,
Not only for the happy few;
To them the toiling man should turn,
For lofty pleasure, too.
But if ye take his blood for bread,
And drive him in one dreary round,
Since he and his must needs be fed,
Ye crush him to the ground.
His mind can grow no soaring wing,
His heart can feel no gengerous glow;
Ye make of him that wretched thing—
A slave, and yet a foe.