 | The Harvest |  |
Oh Calder! scene of guileless youth!
Abode of virtue, love, and truth!
How often, in thy lowly hall,
Sylvander rous'd the village-ball!
The rich, the pompous, and the vain
May treat his low mirth with disdain,
But ne'er did Lover of the Muse
To circle pleasure once refuse.
What, though the tones he drew were rough,
His comrades priz'd them—'twas enough;
And when to Albert's kitchen came
The sire and daughter, child and dame,
And foremost there, in such an hour,
Came Jessy blithe, and Calder's Flower;
Oft has he view'd with rapture-glance,
These beauties lead the simple dance,
Before their smile while striplings plied,
And pleas'd each anxious mother eyed,—
And felt as exquisite a joy
His pleasure-lightened bosom buoy,
As when—that bosom all on flame—
He pour'd in song his Anna's name!
Abode of virtue, love, and truth!
How often, in thy lowly hall,
Sylvander rous'd the village-ball!
The rich, the pompous, and the vain
May treat his low mirth with disdain,
But ne'er did Lover of the Muse
To circle pleasure once refuse.
What, though the tones he drew were rough,
His comrades priz'd them—'twas enough;
And when to Albert's kitchen came
The sire and daughter, child and dame,
74
Came Jessy blithe, and Calder's Flower;
Oft has he view'd with rapture-glance,
These beauties lead the simple dance,
Before their smile while striplings plied,
And pleas'd each anxious mother eyed,—
And felt as exquisite a joy
His pleasure-lightened bosom buoy,
As when—that bosom all on flame—
He pour'd in song his Anna's name!
Then, all dispersed, when frequent bark
To maid foretold the coming spark;
When windows, darkened, flash'd, by turns,
Betray'd the lone hearth's dying burns;
How heavenly did he deem to join
The pious prayer, the psalm divine;
While, mix'd with Albert's raptures high,
His spirit soar'd beyond the sky
Where zephyrs fan, with heaven's perfume,
A land of light—a land of bloom!
To maid foretold the coming spark;
When windows, darkened, flash'd, by turns,
Betray'd the lone hearth's dying burns;
How heavenly did he deem to join
The pious prayer, the psalm divine;
While, mix'd with Albert's raptures high,
His spirit soar'd beyond the sky
Where zephyrs fan, with heaven's perfume,
A land of light—a land of bloom!
So pass'd that Harvest eve, until
The village lay in slumber still,
And dreams—by blameless fancy borne—
Were broken by the rousing morn.
The village lay in slumber still,
And dreams—by blameless fancy borne—
Were broken by the rousing morn.
75
That morn arose; that noon went by;
And evening gilt the western sky;
Day followed day, with sunshine still,
And fresh gales fanning vale and hill.
The well-dried shocks, so lately shorn,
On fair-built wains were homeward borne;
Where, in tall ricks successive piled,
That graceful in the sunbeams smiled,
Each merry driver drew his rein,
And rattled to the fields again.
And evening gilt the western sky;
Day followed day, with sunshine still,
And fresh gales fanning vale and hill.
The well-dried shocks, so lately shorn,
On fair-built wains were homeward borne;
Where, in tall ricks successive piled,
That graceful in the sunbeams smiled,
Each merry driver drew his rein,
And rattled to the fields again.
| The Harvest | |