 | The harp and plow |  |
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INVOCATION.
Ye nymphs of song, ye spirits sweet, who haunt my native hills,
Ye who in tiny shallops glide down all their tinkling rills;
Whose voices soft at eventide, when mild is Luna's beam,
One hears amid the willows green beside the lonely stream;—
Ye who in tiny shallops glide down all their tinkling rills;
Whose voices soft at eventide, when mild is Luna's beam,
One hears amid the willows green beside the lonely stream;—
Come from your mountain dwellings, those airy summits high,
That look into, and take their hue from out the azure sky;
And moor your fairy vessels, scooped from acorns of the tree,
And from your tuneful streams come up and listen unto me:—
That look into, and take their hue from out the azure sky;
And moor your fairy vessels, scooped from acorns of the tree,
And from your tuneful streams come up and listen unto me:—
Ye 've given me a soul of song, ye 've given me a lyre,
And touched a true New-England heart with patriotic fire;
And fain for thee, my country, would I strike an honoring strain,
And sing sweet Ash-u-e-lot's banks, and lift Mo-nad-nock's mane!
And touched a true New-England heart with patriotic fire;
And fain for thee, my country, would I strike an honoring strain,
And sing sweet Ash-u-e-lot's banks, and lift Mo-nad-nock's mane!
Ah, must that lyre in silence hang upon the willow bough!
My hand is heavy grown with toil, and calloused by the plough;
And when I lift it for a song, and out its numbers bring,
How rude the touch, and harsh the note that struggles from the string!
My hand is heavy grown with toil, and calloused by the plough;
And when I lift it for a song, and out its numbers bring,
How rude the touch, and harsh the note that struggles from the string!
When from ‘the loop-hole of retreat’ abroad I cast a look,
And see the candidates that Fame is jotting in her book;
And when I note the eager host that throng to catch her eye,
Faint is my heart, and small my hope her majesty to try.
And see the candidates that Fame is jotting in her book;
And when I note the eager host that throng to catch her eye,
Faint is my heart, and small my hope her majesty to try.
Then oft, in reckless mood, I 've thrown beside the plough-share bright,
That lyre, resolved the furrows deep should hide it from my sight,
Determined never to attempt again the tuneful strain:
But when the plough came round about, up turned the lyre again.
That lyre, resolved the furrows deep should hide it from my sight,
Determined never to attempt again the tuneful strain:
But when the plough came round about, up turned the lyre again.
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Now, something in my breast has fixed the resolution strong
Henceforth to cherish with my life the sacred gift of song;
My country dear may lend an ear; but e'en if she refrain,
I'll have some music on life's march, if but a private strain.
Henceforth to cherish with my life the sacred gift of song;
My country dear may lend an ear; but e'en if she refrain,
I'll have some music on life's march, if but a private strain.
So be content, ye Nymphs of Song, around my ways to dwell;
Tho' all unseen by common eyes, I'll mark your presence well;
I'll see you on the tempest's blast, and on the zephyr's wing,
I'll hear you in the torrent's roar, and in the bubbling spring.
Tho' all unseen by common eyes, I'll mark your presence well;
I'll see you on the tempest's blast, and on the zephyr's wing,
I'll hear you in the torrent's roar, and in the bubbling spring.
Up to the mountain's breezy top attend me as I go,
When calm the blue expanse above, and sweet the scene below;
When Autumn lingers o'er the land in gorgeous tire complete,
Her ‘coat of many colors’ fine, and silver-shod her feet.
When calm the blue expanse above, and sweet the scene below;
When Autumn lingers o'er the land in gorgeous tire complete,
Her ‘coat of many colors’ fine, and silver-shod her feet.
I'll note the farmer at his toil, the heavy burthened wain
That slowly wends its homeward way across the harvest plain;
The cottages that dot the vale like scattered flakes of snow,—
The homes of freemen, strong and brave,—inspire me these to show.
That slowly wends its homeward way across the harvest plain;
The cottages that dot the vale like scattered flakes of snow,—
The homes of freemen, strong and brave,—inspire me these to show.
Aid me to paint the social joys that, when Thanksgiving comes,
Spring sweetly round the festive board in these New-England homes;
The tales about the blazing hearth, when evening bars the doors,
And hollow in the chimney-top the voice of winter roars.
Spring sweetly round the festive board in these New-England homes;
The tales about the blazing hearth, when evening bars the doors,
And hollow in the chimney-top the voice of winter roars.
Aid me to read my COUNTRY'S lore, so rich in classic themes:
Her mountains, forests, lakes, and vales, and Indian-christened streams;
While living, I will give to her the boon of my regard,
And dying, leave for her in love the blessing of a BARD.
Her mountains, forests, lakes, and vales, and Indian-christened streams;
While living, I will give to her the boon of my regard,
And dying, leave for her in love the blessing of a BARD.
| The harp and plow | |