 | The harp and plow |  |
JANUARY.
Old Time, the tireless, in his book
Has turned a leaf anew,
And bent thereon his solemn look
To make a record true.
As fast successive years are told,
Do we grow wise as we grow old?
Is wisdom to the man as coy
As when he was a little boy?
Shall he no godlike lesson learn,
While, wheeling on, the planets burn,
And constant, in their wondrous play,
Light for his thoughts a loftier way?
Has turned a leaf anew,
And bent thereon his solemn look
To make a record true.
As fast successive years are told,
Do we grow wise as we grow old?
Is wisdom to the man as coy
As when he was a little boy?
Shall he no godlike lesson learn,
While, wheeling on, the planets burn,
And constant, in their wondrous play,
Light for his thoughts a loftier way?
The woodman in some sheltering nook,
When haply Phœbus shines,
Hears far o'erhead the solemn airs
Among the shivering pines.
There seated, thoughtful and alone,
He takes his frugal meal,
And feels a sympathizing gloom
Upon his spirits steal;
His dog, from many a fruitless search,
Comes to his master there,
And seems his gloomy thoughts to feel,
And would his dinner share.
When haply Phœbus shines,
Hears far o'erhead the solemn airs
Among the shivering pines.
There seated, thoughtful and alone,
He takes his frugal meal,
And feels a sympathizing gloom
Upon his spirits steal;
48
Comes to his master there,
And seems his gloomy thoughts to feel,
And would his dinner share.
From mossy trunks, with nervous arm,
He rears the ponderous load,
And slowly seeks his distant home
Along the dreary road.
The rising storm, from regions bleak,
May howl o'er him in wrath,
The furious squall and eddying drift
May blind the sledder's path;
Still on he cheers his patient team,
He whistles, shouts, and sings;
He 's thinking of the pleasure that
The fireside circle brings.
He rears the ponderous load,
And slowly seeks his distant home
Along the dreary road.
The rising storm, from regions bleak,
May howl o'er him in wrath,
The furious squall and eddying drift
May blind the sledder's path;
Still on he cheers his patient team,
He whistles, shouts, and sings;
He 's thinking of the pleasure that
The fireside circle brings.
At length, storm-beaten, to his door
His weary cattle come;
His children peer the windows through,
And shout a welcome home;
Gone are the labors of the day,
The beatings of the storm;
His features soften to a smile,
Beside his hearth-stone warm.
His weary cattle come;
His children peer the windows through,
And shout a welcome home;
Gone are the labors of the day,
The beatings of the storm;
His features soften to a smile,
Beside his hearth-stone warm.
A little child—her father's pet—
Is seated on his knee,
And hears about the squirrel's nest
Snug in the hollow tree;
The winter-berries in his vest
She seeks, and calls them good;
The woodman thought about his child
When in the lonely wood.
Is seated on his knee,
And hears about the squirrel's nest
Snug in the hollow tree;
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She seeks, and calls them good;
The woodman thought about his child
When in the lonely wood.
| The harp and plow | |