University of Virginia Library

TWO SONNETS IN DEFENCE OF SONG.

I. MORNING.

Loose beechen leaves above me; over which,
The cupola of heaven—so still and bright,
With the sun dreaming in a far high niche,
You think it never can again be night.
Nature at rest. The only sounds that reach
The listening ear are Labour's, and are light—
Rustlings among the oats, the reaper's speech,
And the mill-hum of a small town in sight.
Afield and in the factory they work,
Those at the loom, and these among the corn;
While I, the only idler, seem to shirk
The duty laid on every one that's born,
And, lapt in leaves, among the beeches lurk,
A spy upon my fellows all the morn.

II. EVENING.

But evening comes: the sounds of Labour cease,
And weary workers from their toil return;
Domestic lights in cottage windows burn,
And sundered families unite in peace.
Now what shall smooth with gentle hand the crease
Of furrowed brow and ruffled heart outworn,
Strengthen for the recurring toils of morn,
And wrap the spirit in the robes of peace?
—Song! which the poet, idling, as ye said,
Gathered fresh-fallen from the morning skies.
Song! which he wove, and dipped in rainbow dyes
When ye cried Out upon him, Lazyhead!
Song! that both feeds and clothes, and far outvies
Your factory fabrics and your oaten bread!