 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
268
MUSIC OF THE FLAIL.
The music of the year is not confined
To the gay spring-time's overture of sweets,
Nor summer's breathings on the scented wind,
Nor that the ear in autumn's cadence greets.
But when the snow comes down and clothes the plain,
And o'er the house-top roars the boisterous gale,
Above the storm and the fierce wind's refrain
Ascends the music of the thresher's flail;
A charming minstrelsy of glad accord,
That tells of plenty and of hearty cheer:
Of wealth and joy, the farmer's rich reward,
The crowning glory of the busy year;
A peaceful, quiet, unpretending lay,
But pleasant music on a wintry day.
To the gay spring-time's overture of sweets,
Nor summer's breathings on the scented wind,
Nor that the ear in autumn's cadence greets.
But when the snow comes down and clothes the plain,
And o'er the house-top roars the boisterous gale,
Above the storm and the fierce wind's refrain
Ascends the music of the thresher's flail;
A charming minstrelsy of glad accord,
That tells of plenty and of hearty cheer:
Of wealth and joy, the farmer's rich reward,
The crowning glory of the busy year;
A peaceful, quiet, unpretending lay,
But pleasant music on a wintry day.
Monotonous its tone; no mighty song
Is that which rises from the threshing-floor—
Its time but measured by the heart-beats strong
Of him who long has conned its measure o'er;
Its only listener, maybe, the sweet bird
That sits awaiting on the frozen spray,
Or the slim weasel, that abroad has stirred,
Disturbed from his reflections in the hay.
Yet, like the rivulet, alone it pours
Its mellow accents on the passing time;
And though no turbulence of glad encores
Bespeaks the welcome of its note sublime,
The farmer loves the simple, sinewy strain,
Whose pulses throb with measures of the grain.
Is that which rises from the threshing-floor—
Its time but measured by the heart-beats strong
Of him who long has conned its measure o'er;
Its only listener, maybe, the sweet bird
That sits awaiting on the frozen spray,
269
Disturbed from his reflections in the hay.
Yet, like the rivulet, alone it pours
Its mellow accents on the passing time;
And though no turbulence of glad encores
Bespeaks the welcome of its note sublime,
The farmer loves the simple, sinewy strain,
Whose pulses throb with measures of the grain.
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |