Down where the daylight never comes
Toileth the miner on;
He sees not the golden morning break--
He sees not the setting sun.
Dimly his lamp in the dark vault burns,
And he sits on the miner's hard floor,
Toiling, toiling, toiling on;
Toiling for precious ore!
The air is wet; for the dew and rain,
Drank by the thirsty ground,
Have won their way to his dark retreat,
And are trickling all around---
And sickly vapors are near his lips,
And close to his wire-net lamp,
Unseen, as an evil spirit comes,
Up stealeth the dread fire-damp!
But the miner works on, though death is by,
And fears not the monster grim;
For the wiry gauze, round his steady light,
Makes a safety-lamp for him.
Rough and rude, and of little worth,
Seems the ore that the miner brings
From the hidden places where lie concealed
Earth's rare and precious things;
But, tried awhile in the glowing fire,
It is rough and rude no more;
Art moulds the iron, and forms the gold,
And fashions the silver ore.
And useful, rare, and beautiful things,
'Neath the hand of skill arise:
Oh! a thousand thousand human wants
The miner's toil supplies!