Every toiler in his toil;
Life is Work in Duty's hand,
Art and Nature both demand
Daily labour, midnight oil:

Every workman for his work;
Art hath many, keen of skill,-
Nature showing whom she will
Where her inner secrets lurk:

Every scholar to his task;
Know'st thou not thy special page
To be conned from youth to age?
Ask that knowledge, meekly ask,-

Ask it of the Heaven above,
Ask it of the Earth below,
Ask thy heart and mind, and so
Follow on in faith and love.

Thou shalt thus be taught to find
There is some good work and true
For thy proper hand to do
Suited to thy heart and mind.

- What is ours? - Well, that depends;
Mine, at this peculiar time
Is,- in reason tagged with rhyme,
Just to touch on what's my friend's:

Beetles are his special care;
Beetles, shining in the sun,
Beetles, as they crawl or run,
Beetles, beetles everywhere!

Beetles, huge as bats or birds,
Beetles, small as dust of earth,
Beetles, of Madeiran birth,
Beetles, from the Cape de Verdes,

Beetles, in Nilotic mud,
Beetles, from the bright Azores,
Beetles new on British shores,
Beetles older than the Flood!

Beetles! - does this trivial seem?-
Yet philosophers may spend
All their lives from end to end,
But shall not exhaust that theme.

God in all His works is great,
Greatest in the smallest things;
And the lowest creature brings
Homage to His Highest State.

Note these microscopic spots,
By our Wollaston defin'd
Each a miracle of mind,
One of God's forget-me-nots!

Yea,- the meanest thing that crawls,-
Vermin be it, if men will,-
As a marvel of deep skill
Is praised in the Celestial Halls!

Then, high-hearted Wollaston,
Still work on in love and faith,
For to thee God surely saith
Servant, good and true, well-done!