 | The harp and plow |  |
188
THE OLD FARMER'S ELEGY.
On a green, grassy knoll by the banks of the brook,
That so long and so often has watered his flock,
The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep,
While the waters a low, lapsing lullaby keep.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
That so long and so often has watered his flock,
The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep,
While the waters a low, lapsing lullaby keep.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
The blue-bird sings sweet on the gay maple bough,—
Its warbling oft cheered him while holding the plough;
And the robins above him hop light on the mold,
For he fed them with crumbs when the season was cold.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
Its warbling oft cheered him while holding the plough;
And the robins above him hop light on the mold,
For he fed them with crumbs when the season was cold.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
Yon tree, that with fragrance is filling the air,
So rich with its blossoms, so thrifty and fair,
By his own hand was planted, and well did he say
It would live when its planter had mouldered away!
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
So rich with its blossoms, so thrifty and fair,
By his own hand was planted, and well did he say
It would live when its planter had mouldered away!
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
189
There 's the well that he dug, with its waters so cold,
With its wet, dripping bucket, so mossy and old,
No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn,
For ‘the pitcher is broken,’—the old man is gone!
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
With its wet, dripping bucket, so mossy and old,
No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn,
For ‘the pitcher is broken,’—the old man is gone!
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
And the seat where he sat by his own cottage door,
In the still summer eves, when his labors were o'er,
With his eye on the moon, and his pipe in his hand,
Dispensing his truths like a sage of the land.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
In the still summer eves, when his labors were o'er,
With his eye on the moon, and his pipe in his hand,
Dispensing his truths like a sage of the land.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
'T was a gloom-giving day when the old farmer died!
The stout-hearted mourned,—the affectionate cried;
And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend,
For they all lost a BROTHER, a MAN, and a FRIEND.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
The stout-hearted mourned,—the affectionate cried;
And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend,
For they all lost a BROTHER, a MAN, and a FRIEND.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
For upright and honest the old farmer was;
His God he revered,—he respected the laws;
Tho' fameless he lived, he has gone where his worth
Will outshine like pure gold all the dross of this earth.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
His God he revered,—he respected the laws;
Tho' fameless he lived, he has gone where his worth
Will outshine like pure gold all the dross of this earth.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
| The harp and plow | |