The Battle-Day and Other Poems By Ernest Jones |
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| THE CORNFIELD AND THE FACTORY. |
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 | The Battle-Day and Other Poems |  |
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THE CORNFIELD AND THE FACTORY.
Oh! what is so blithe as through cornfields to roam,
When the lark is in heaven and laughter on earth?
Oh! what is so blithe as the glad harvest-home,
When the lads are all frolic—the lasses all mirth?
When the lark is in heaven and laughter on earth?
Oh! what is so blithe as the glad harvest-home,
When the lads are all frolic—the lasses all mirth?
Oh! what is so fair as mid breezes of June
To watch the long corn-billows sweep?
When the fields in their bloom sway like tides to the moon,
And from slender stalks drooping the soft whispers creep,
As though angels walked through them and prayed o'er their sleep!
To watch the long corn-billows sweep?
When the fields in their bloom sway like tides to the moon,
And from slender stalks drooping the soft whispers creep,
As though angels walked through them and prayed o'er their sleep!
90
Oh! what is so gay as the harvest-home dance,
When the moonbeams troop on the gray churchroof,
And the old men smile as they stand aloof;
The boys and the girls round them riot and race,
And the moon seems to laugh till 'tis red in the face
At the goblets that clank and the younkers that prance—
And the village-girls glance—at their partners askance,
As though heads and hearts too could be proof?
When the moonbeams troop on the gray churchroof,
And the old men smile as they stand aloof;
The boys and the girls round them riot and race,
And the moon seems to laugh till 'tis red in the face
At the goblets that clank and the younkers that prance—
And the village-girls glance—at their partners askance,
As though heads and hearts too could be proof?
Oh! what is so sweet as the Sunday morn?
When the bells on the breezes flow;
And the peasant lad walks with his bride through the corn
As church-ward they go—oh!—how slow—
Because—the blue cornflowers along the path grow!
And he and his lass bless the corn as they pass—
For they speak with a glance of the harvest-home dance.
When the bells on the breezes flow;
And the peasant lad walks with his bride through the corn
As church-ward they go—oh!—how slow—
Because—the blue cornflowers along the path grow!
And he and his lass bless the corn as they pass—
For they speak with a glance of the harvest-home dance.
91
Oh! what is so calm as the old man's joy,
When he walks by the field in its pride,
And talks of his feats in that field when a boy,
To the young boy who walks by his side?
How he mowed it down in one long summer's day:
When the labour was done how he knelt down to pray!
See! the flashes of boyhood from aged eyes glance,
For he thinks of his bride at the harvest-home dance.
When he walks by the field in its pride,
And talks of his feats in that field when a boy,
To the young boy who walks by his side?
How he mowed it down in one long summer's day:
When the labour was done how he knelt down to pray!
See! the flashes of boyhood from aged eyes glance,
For he thinks of his bride at the harvest-home dance.
'Twas merry in England in times of old
When the summer fields rolled their long billows of gold,
And the bright year had climbed to its noon;
The earth was song, laughter, and joyaunce and love,
And the Spirit of heaven sat smiling above,
From the orb of the red harvest moon.
When the summer fields rolled their long billows of gold,
And the bright year had climbed to its noon;
The earth was song, laughter, and joyaunce and love,
And the Spirit of heaven sat smiling above,
From the orb of the red harvest moon.
But where has it flown? Why less bright than of old
Does summer turn emerald fields into gold?
And the harvest moon struggle through mist faint and dim,
Like a pale ghost who peers round the charnel shroud's rim?
On the fair brow of woman a shadow is bent,
From the wild eye of man flashes forth discontent!
Say! Whence comes the change? Whence the curse has been sent?
Does summer turn emerald fields into gold?
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Like a pale ghost who peers round the charnel shroud's rim?
On the fair brow of woman a shadow is bent,
From the wild eye of man flashes forth discontent!
Say! Whence comes the change? Whence the curse has been sent?
What is it, next the church-tower climbs the sky,
How more frequented far, and scarce less high?
What plague-cloud rolls across the darkened land,
And hurls the sun away with shadowy hand?
What wheels revolve in dungeons hot and black,
Of modern tyranny the modern rack?
What horrid birth from that unnatural womb?
The demon god of factory and loom!
Fierce, with a yell he bounds upon the land,
Writhes his thin lip and waves his yellow hand,
And points, where man's volcanoes through the skies,
His thousand temples' burning altars rise.
Curses and groans his ear like anthems greet,
And blighted lives are cast beneath his feet.
His sable banners o'er heaven's glory roll
The shades that blast the heart and reach the soul.
Care-stricken forms the street's long darkness fill,
Embodied dreams of misery and ill!
A more than Cain-like mark their foreheads bear,
For sin's their only respite from despair!
And in each sunken eye's unhallowed cell
The fever flashes, not of life, but hell.
Oaths upon infant lips, and, loathsome sight!
The eyes of childhood without childhood's light.
The laugh of youth a gibbering of art;
Larves of humanity without a heart!
How more frequented far, and scarce less high?
What plague-cloud rolls across the darkened land,
And hurls the sun away with shadowy hand?
What wheels revolve in dungeons hot and black,
Of modern tyranny the modern rack?
What horrid birth from that unnatural womb?
The demon god of factory and loom!
Fierce, with a yell he bounds upon the land,
Writhes his thin lip and waves his yellow hand,
And points, where man's volcanoes through the skies,
His thousand temples' burning altars rise.
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And blighted lives are cast beneath his feet.
His sable banners o'er heaven's glory roll
The shades that blast the heart and reach the soul.
Care-stricken forms the street's long darkness fill,
Embodied dreams of misery and ill!
A more than Cain-like mark their foreheads bear,
For sin's their only respite from despair!
And in each sunken eye's unhallowed cell
The fever flashes, not of life, but hell.
Oaths upon infant lips, and, loathsome sight!
The eyes of childhood without childhood's light.
The laugh of youth a gibbering of art;
Larves of humanity without a heart!
The very sun shines pale on a dark earth,
Where quivering engines groan their horrid mirth,
And black smoke-offerings, crimes and curses, swell
From furnace-altars of incarnate hell!
The demon laughs, and still his arm he waves,
That thins the villages, but fills the graves.
Through bleak, deserted fields he loves to roam,
Where shines the furnace on hell's harvest-home.
'Tis this has stilled the laughter of the child,
And made man's mirth less holy, but more wild!
Bade Heav'n's pure light from woman's eye depart,
And trodden love from out her gentle heart.
'Tis this, that wards the sunshine from the sod,
And intercepts the very smile of God!
Where quivering engines groan their horrid mirth,
And black smoke-offerings, crimes and curses, swell
From furnace-altars of incarnate hell!
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That thins the villages, but fills the graves.
Through bleak, deserted fields he loves to roam,
Where shines the furnace on hell's harvest-home.
'Tis this has stilled the laughter of the child,
And made man's mirth less holy, but more wild!
Bade Heav'n's pure light from woman's eye depart,
And trodden love from out her gentle heart.
'Tis this, that wards the sunshine from the sod,
And intercepts the very smile of God!
| The Battle-Day and Other Poems | |