 | The Harvest |  |
“When toil has steep'd in sweat the brow,
Oh rest, how truly sweet art thou!”
Thus spoke each kemper's heart, as they
On unbound sheaves extended lay
Before the sun's declining fire,
And felt their bodies warm perspire.
Beside the maids they lov'd with truth,
Sylvander and the Cheviot-youth
Confess'd a lover's bliss the while,
From whisper'd speech, and answering smile.
Till Albert, who did now prolong
The rest-time of the wearied throng,
The order gave to rise once more,—
“I trust”—he smiled—“the bustle's o'er.
And now your aid, ye first in war!
Be giv'n to them you left afar.
Thus, still if rage your breasts retain,
Thus shall you fairly start again.
But little fear of that I trow—
Sylvander, you and Anna, go,
And forward bring yon man of Skie.
The rest shall here their aid apply.”
Oh rest, how truly sweet art thou!”
Thus spoke each kemper's heart, as they
On unbound sheaves extended lay
Before the sun's declining fire,
And felt their bodies warm perspire.
60
Sylvander and the Cheviot-youth
Confess'd a lover's bliss the while,
From whisper'd speech, and answering smile.
Till Albert, who did now prolong
The rest-time of the wearied throng,
The order gave to rise once more,—
“I trust”—he smiled—“the bustle's o'er.
And now your aid, ye first in war!
Be giv'n to them you left afar.
Thus, still if rage your breasts retain,
Thus shall you fairly start again.
But little fear of that I trow—
Sylvander, you and Anna, go,
And forward bring yon man of Skie.
The rest shall here their aid apply.”
Slow at the word, arose the train;
Their toiling sickles clash'd again.
While, with his Anna, pass'd along
Roddamia's “Son of rural song,”
To where poor Norman, rais'd once more,
Unskill'd and feeble, forward bore.
Sylvander mark'd his visage dun,
Furrow'd and tawn'd by time and sun;
His hazle eyes, where erst had reign'd
A matchless lustre, yet retain'd
A lively fire, that sparkled through
Their lashes long of sable hue.
Woe, want, and hardship's ruthless storm
Had sore unnerv'd his manly form,
Which, under their united rage,
Now prematurely sunk in age.
He wore the seaman's colour true,
And priz'd the Highland bonnet blue.
Norman in turn, survey'd the youth;
He liked his open face of truth.
He found him curious—fond to hear
A travell'd stranger's life-career;
And, while the ridge they downward hold,
His story thus the wanderer told.
Their toiling sickles clash'd again.
While, with his Anna, pass'd along
Roddamia's “Son of rural song,”
To where poor Norman, rais'd once more,
Unskill'd and feeble, forward bore.
Sylvander mark'd his visage dun,
Furrow'd and tawn'd by time and sun;
61
A matchless lustre, yet retain'd
A lively fire, that sparkled through
Their lashes long of sable hue.
Woe, want, and hardship's ruthless storm
Had sore unnerv'd his manly form,
Which, under their united rage,
Now prematurely sunk in age.
He wore the seaman's colour true,
And priz'd the Highland bonnet blue.
Norman in turn, survey'd the youth;
He liked his open face of truth.
He found him curious—fond to hear
A travell'd stranger's life-career;
And, while the ridge they downward hold,
His story thus the wanderer told.
| The Harvest | |