 | The poetical works of John Townsend Trowbridge |  |
SONG OF THE FLAIL
In the Autumn, when the hollows
All are filled with flying leaves,
And the colonies of swallows
Long have quit the stuccoed eaves,
And a silver mantle glistens
Over all the misty vale,
Sits the little wife, and listens
To the beating of the flail,
To the pounding of the flail,—
By her cradle sits and listens
To the flapping of the flail.
All are filled with flying leaves,
And the colonies of swallows
Long have quit the stuccoed eaves,
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Over all the misty vale,
Sits the little wife, and listens
To the beating of the flail,
To the pounding of the flail,—
By her cradle sits and listens
To the flapping of the flail.
The bright summer days are over,
And her eye no longer sees
The red bloom upon the clover,
The deep green upon the trees;
Hushed the songs of finch and robin,
And the whistle of the quail,
While she hears the mellow throbbing
Of the thunder of the flail,
The low thunder of the flail,—
Through the amber air, the throbbing
And reverberating flail.
And her eye no longer sees
The red bloom upon the clover,
The deep green upon the trees;
Hushed the songs of finch and robin,
And the whistle of the quail,
While she hears the mellow throbbing
Of the thunder of the flail,
The low thunder of the flail,—
Through the amber air, the throbbing
And reverberating flail.
In the barn the stout young thresher
Stooping stands with rolled-up sleeves,
Beating out his golden treasure
From the ripped and rustling sheaves:—
O, was ever knight in armor,
Warrior all in shining mail,
Half so handsome as her farmer,
As he plies the flying flail,
As he wields the flashing flail?
The bare-throated, brown young farmer,
As he swings the sounding flail!
Stooping stands with rolled-up sleeves,
Beating out his golden treasure
From the ripped and rustling sheaves:—
O, was ever knight in armor,
Warrior all in shining mail,
Half so handsome as her farmer,
As he plies the flying flail,
As he wields the flashing flail?
The bare-throated, brown young farmer,
As he swings the sounding flail!
All the hopes that saw the sowing,
All the sweet desire of gain,
All the joy that watched the growing
And the yellowing of the grain,
And the love that went to woo her,
And the faith that shall not fail,
All are speaking softly to her
In the pulses of the flail,
Of the palpitating flail,—
Past and Future whisper to her
In the music of the flail.
All the sweet desire of gain,
All the joy that watched the growing
And the yellowing of the grain,
And the love that went to woo her,
And the faith that shall not fail,
All are speaking softly to her
In the pulses of the flail,
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Past and Future whisper to her
In the music of the flail.
In its crib the babe is sleeping,
And the sunshine, from the door,
All the afternoon is creeping
Slowly round upon the floor;
And the shadows soon will darken,
And the daylight soon must pale,
When her heart no more shall hearken
To the tramping of the flail,
To the dancing of the flail,—
Her fond heart no more shall hearken
To the footfall of the flail.
And the sunshine, from the door,
All the afternoon is creeping
Slowly round upon the floor;
And the shadows soon will darken,
And the daylight soon must pale,
When her heart no more shall hearken
To the tramping of the flail,
To the dancing of the flail,—
Her fond heart no more shall hearken
To the footfall of the flail.
And the babe shall grow and strengthen,
Be a maiden, be a wife,
While the moving shadows lengthen
Round the dial of their life:
Theirs the trust of friend and neighbor,
And an age serene and hale,
When machines shall do the labor
Of the strong arm and the flail,
Of the stout heart and the flail,—
Great machines perform the labor
Of the good old-fashioned flail.
Be a maiden, be a wife,
While the moving shadows lengthen
Round the dial of their life:
Theirs the trust of friend and neighbor,
And an age serene and hale,
When machines shall do the labor
Of the strong arm and the flail,
Of the stout heart and the flail,—
Great machines perform the labor
Of the good old-fashioned flail.
But when, blesséd among women,
And when, honored among men,
They look round them, can the brimming
Of their utmost wishes then
Give them happiness completer?
Or can ease and wealth avail
To make any music sweeter
Than the pounding of the flail?
O, the sounding of the flail!
Never music can be sweeter
Than the beating of the flail!
And when, honored among men,
They look round them, can the brimming
Of their utmost wishes then
Give them happiness completer?
Or can ease and wealth avail
To make any music sweeter
Than the pounding of the flail?
O, the sounding of the flail!
Never music can be sweeter
Than the beating of the flail!
| The poetical works of John Townsend Trowbridge | |