 | The harp and plow |  |
JULY.
On the fourth morning of thy moon,
From slumber we awaken soon;
The thundering gun, and pealing bell
A nation's glad remembrance tell.
'Tis well; I love to see the fire
Our father's built, re-burn;
I love the memories of the sire—
The ashes, and the urn!
I love to see the gray-haired man,
Who can tell more than history can,
Filled with emotion when he sees
That banner streaming in the breeze.
The tears that down his visage roll
When sounds that fire the soldier's soul
Break on his deadened ears, declare
He once was ready, and was there.
From slumber we awaken soon;
The thundering gun, and pealing bell
A nation's glad remembrance tell.
58
Our father's built, re-burn;
I love the memories of the sire—
The ashes, and the urn!
I love to see the gray-haired man,
Who can tell more than history can,
Filled with emotion when he sees
That banner streaming in the breeze.
The tears that down his visage roll
When sounds that fire the soldier's soul
Break on his deadened ears, declare
He once was ready, and was there.
Haymakers to their labors speed
At morning's dewy dawn;
They gather in the tangled mead
And on the upland lawn.
At morning's dewy dawn;
They gather in the tangled mead
And on the upland lawn.
Through the tall grass the mower goes,
A day's work in his mein;
The grass he likens to his foes,
His scythe to falchion keen.
A day's work in his mein;
The grass he likens to his foes,
His scythe to falchion keen.
(The farmer's life may peaceful be,
Free from all bloody feuds;
Yet will he use instinctively
Warlike similitudes.)
Free from all bloody feuds;
Yet will he use instinctively
Warlike similitudes.)
High noon is blazing from the sky;
Broad acres shorn and withered lie,
While in the maple's cooling shade
The mowers lazily are laid.
The farmer springs from out his chair,
The weather is his watchful care
And not the terrors of lee-shore
Could startle hardy seaman more,
Than him that growling from afar,
Proclaiming elemental war;—
Sounds, which at distance far away,
I've heard my good old grandame say,
Seemed like the sullen booming gun
On battle-day at Bennington.
Broad acres shorn and withered lie,
While in the maple's cooling shade
The mowers lazily are laid.
59
The weather is his watchful care
And not the terrors of lee-shore
Could startle hardy seaman more,
Than him that growling from afar,
Proclaiming elemental war;—
Sounds, which at distance far away,
I've heard my good old grandame say,
Seemed like the sullen booming gun
On battle-day at Bennington.
Sudden grows dark the western sky;
All hands a-field! is now the cry.
The cottage girl with laughing eyes
And flushed with health and exercise
Comes bounding outward from the door,
And half in sport, but something more,
Seizes a rake with carol cheery,
And with her presence fires the weary.
Then soon along the darkening road
Is trundling home the ponderous load,
Lively, my lads! the rushing rain
Is just behind you on the plain!
Lively! and gain the open doors,
E'er pattering on the roof it pours.
All hands a-field! is now the cry.
The cottage girl with laughing eyes
And flushed with health and exercise
Comes bounding outward from the door,
And half in sport, but something more,
Seizes a rake with carol cheery,
And with her presence fires the weary.
Then soon along the darkening road
Is trundling home the ponderous load,
Lively, my lads! the rushing rain
Is just behind you on the plain!
Lively! and gain the open doors,
E'er pattering on the roof it pours.
Toil brings its recompense to one
Whose thoughts are working like his hands;
For toil's reward is not alone
The product rich of fertile lands.
Whose thoughts are working like his hands;
For toil's reward is not alone
The product rich of fertile lands.
60
Does one possess the painter's eye,
Or sip the bright Pierian bowl?
Then cares that listless ease deny
Stamp vigor's impress on his soul.—
Or sip the bright Pierian bowl?
Then cares that listless ease deny
Stamp vigor's impress on his soul.—
Thus muses, in the gloaming, one
As round him meadows shorn are seen,
And the last pencil of the sun
Tinges the oaks with golden green!
As round him meadows shorn are seen,
And the last pencil of the sun
Tinges the oaks with golden green!
| The harp and plow | |