 | The harp and plow |  |
91
THE FARMER TO HIS PLOUGH.
Not homely is the theme I sing,
Tho' fancy seldom plumes her wing
Beside thy glittering share;
She'll wander, first, earth's confines o'er,
And search, and draw from fab'lous lore,
Her burden and her care.
Tho' fancy seldom plumes her wing
Beside thy glittering share;
She'll wander, first, earth's confines o'er,
And search, and draw from fab'lous lore,
Her burden and her care.
Not homely is the theme I sing,
Though some account thee but a thing
Devoid of every grace;
I know not who invented thee;
Whoe'er he was, he ought to be
The glory of our race.
Though some account thee but a thing
Devoid of every grace;
I know not who invented thee;
Whoe'er he was, he ought to be
The glory of our race.
The sailor on his anchor leans,
The soldier dotes on battle-scenes,
And shows his gleaming brand;
But forward comes the farmer now,
With honest front, the good old plough
Beneath his horny hand!
The soldier dotes on battle-scenes,
And shows his gleaming brand;
But forward comes the farmer now,
With honest front, the good old plough
Beneath his horny hand!
92
The throne, the sceptre, and the crown
May into ruins crumble down;
Still man in peace may rest;
Wealth may take wings and fly away,
The luxuries of pride decay,
Still man be truly blest:—
May into ruins crumble down;
Still man in peace may rest;
Wealth may take wings and fly away,
The luxuries of pride decay,
Still man be truly blest:—
But banish thee from off the earth!
Then wailing takes the place of mirth
And direful woe upsprings;
Then Desolation blights the land,
And Famine, with her bony hand,
Defies the wants of kings.
Then wailing takes the place of mirth
And direful woe upsprings;
Then Desolation blights the land,
And Famine, with her bony hand,
Defies the wants of kings.
Back through the hoary old I look
To find the plough and reaping-hook:
I find them there, and view
Old rapt Elisha at the plough,
And Cincinnatus' thoughtful brow
All damp with labor's dew.
To find the plough and reaping-hook:
I find them there, and view
Old rapt Elisha at the plough,
And Cincinnatus' thoughtful brow
All damp with labor's dew.
Though I may never hope to drive
The team Elisha drove, or thrive
With Cincinnatus' fame;
Yet fast by thee, old plough! I'll stand,
And let my thoughts run more ‘to land,’
Than on a mighty name.
The team Elisha drove, or thrive
With Cincinnatus' fame;
Yet fast by thee, old plough! I'll stand,
And let my thoughts run more ‘to land,’
Than on a mighty name.
| The harp and plow | |