The Farmer.

A poem by Freeman Edwin Miller

Let nations encircle the brows of the brave
With glory the greatest that glitters below,
Who make in the blood of the battle a grave
For all that are found in the ranks of the foe;
But I from the greatness, the grandeur, and gleam,
Would turn to the light of clear-glowing hearth,
And choose from his joy for the soul of my theme
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

Let millions give worship to riches and wealth,
That gay in their brilliancy sparkle and gleam,
And serve with the hands of their happiest health
The haughty who idle and revel and dream;
In hall or in hamlet, in cottage or cave,
Or sickened with sorrow or maddened with mirth,
There's none I shall serve with the will of a slave
But the farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

Let poets in praises heart-swelling and sweet
With rapture that rises in beautiful song,
Make sages immortal and ages replete
With hundreds of heroes who wrestled the wrong;
All honest men well from the Muses may claim
The numbers that murmur to merit and worth,
And so I would fold in the mantles of fame
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

Let orators over the deeds of the great
Re-echo the tributes of tenderest praise,
And over the ashes that slumber in state
Let peoples their marbles and monuments raise;
But I, from the frenzied applauses uncouth,
To those who are chained in the bondage of birth,
Would flee to surround with the lilies of truth
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.

Let hearts that are grateful in gratitude crown
The friend of the many and foe of the few;
Let souls in their secret admiring enthrone
Whatever a martyr or minion may do;
But down in my bosom while reasonings reign,
Of friendship and love there is never a dearth
For him who is toiling in pleasure or pain,
The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth.