| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 1195. The Man with the Hoe |
| | | A Reply |
| | | By John Vance Cheney |
| | | | | Let us a little permit Nature to take her own way: she better understands her own affairs than we.—MONTAIGNE. |
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| NATURE reads not our labels, “great” and “small”; | |
| Accepts she one and all | |
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| Who, striving, win and hold the vacant place; | |
| All are of royal race. | |
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| Him, there, rough-cast, with rigid arm and limb, | 5 |
| The Mother moulded him, | |
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| Of his rude realm ruler and demigod, | |
| Lord of the rock and clod. | |
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| With Nature is no “better” and no “worse,” | |
| On this bared head no curse. | 10 |
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| Humbled it is and bowed; so is he crowned | |
| Whose kingdom is the ground. | |
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| Diverse the burdens on the one stern road | |
| Where bears each back its load; | |
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| Varied the toil, but neither high nor low. | 15 |
| With pen or sword or hoe, | |
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| He that has put out strength, lo, he is strong; | |
| Of him with spade or song | |
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| Nature but questions,—“This one, shall he stay?” | |
| She answers “Yea,” or “Nay,” | 20 |
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| “Well, ill, he digs, he sings;” and he bides on, | |
| Or shudders, and is gone. | |
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| Strength shall he have, the toiler, strength and grace, | |
| So fitted to his place | |
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| As he leaned, there, an oak where sea winds blow, | 25 |
| Our brother with the hoe. | |
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| No blot, no monster, no unsightly thing, | |
| The soil’s long-lineaged king; | |
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| His changeless realm, he knows it and commands; | |
| Erect enough he stands, | 30 |
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| Tall as his toil. Nor does he bow unblest: | |
| Labor he has, and rest. | |
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| Need was, need is, and need will ever be | |
| For him and such as he; | |
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| Cast for the gap, with gnarlëd arm and limb, | 35 |
| The Mother moulded him,— | |
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| Long wrought, and moulded him with mother’s care, | |
| Before she set him there. | |
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| And aye she gives him, mindful of her own, | |
| Peace of the plant, the stone; | 40 |
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| Yea, since above his work he may not rise, | |
| She makes the field his skies. | |
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| See! she that bore him, and metes out the lot, | |
| He serves her. Vex him not | |
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| To scorn the rock whence he was hewn, the pit | 45 |
| And what was digged from it; | |
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| Lest he no more in native virtue stand, | |
| The earth-sword in his hand, | |
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| But follow sorry phantoms to and fro, | |
| And let a kingdom go. | 50 |
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