Storras and tempests, floods and rains,
Stern despoilers of the plains,
Hence away, the season flee,
Foes to light-heart jollity;
May no winds careering high,
Drive the clouds along the sky;
But may all nature smile with aspect boon,
Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?
No, Patrick! we talked, while we braved the wild
weather,
Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.
Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,
And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky!.
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, har-Oh, let not our spirits, embittered with pain,
'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,
The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes;
He dreams of crowded barns, and round
The yard he hears the flail resound;
Oh! may no hurricane destroy
His visionary views of joy :
God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer,
And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blustering
Sons of luxury, to you
Leave I sleep's dull power to woo:
Press ye still the downy bed,
While feverish dreams surround your head;
I will seek the woodland glade,
Penetrate the thickest shade,
Wrapt in contemplation's dreams,
Musing high on holy themes,
While on the gale
The nightingale's enchanting tune,
And oft my eyes
Shall grateful rise
To thee, the modest harvest moon!
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
SONG OF THE PEASANT WIFE.
OME, Patrick, clear up the storms on your brow;
You were kind to me once-will you frown on me now?
Shall the storm settle here, when from heaven it departs,
And the cold from without finds it way to our hearts? No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather
Is easily borne when we bear it together.
Though the rain's dropping through, from the roof to the floor,
And the wind whistles free, where there once was a door,
Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away
All the warm vows we made in our love's early day?
No, Patrick, no! sure the dark stormy weather
Is easily borne, if we bear it together.
When you stole out to woo me when labor was done,
And the day that was closing to us seemed begun,
Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,
Be dead to the sunshine that came to us then! Heart in heart, hand in hand, let us welcome the weather,
And, sunshine or storm, we will bear it together. CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON
EGLECTED now the early daisy lies:
Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom'st the on prize;
Advancing spring profusely spreads abroad Flowers of all hues, with sweetest fragrance stored · Where'er she treads, love gladdens every plain, Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train;
Sweet hope with conscious brow before her flies
Anticipating wealth from summer skies;
All nature feels her renovating sway;
The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow gay;
And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen,
Display the new-grown branch of lighter green;
On airy downs the shepherd idling lies,
And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies.
Here, then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue,
For every day was Giles a shepherd too.
Small was his charge: no wilds had they to ram:
But bright inclosures circling round their home.
No yellow-blossomed furze, nor stubborn thorn,
The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn ;
Yet ever roving, ever seeking thee,
Enchanting spirit, dear variety!
O happy tenants, prisoners of a day!
Released to ease, to pleasure, and to play;
Indulged through every field by turns to range,
And taste them all in one continual change.
For though luxuriant their grassy food,
Sheep long confined but loathe the present good.
Bleating around the homeward gate they meet,
And starve, and pine, with plenty at their feet.
Loosed from the winding lane, a joyful throng,
See, o'er yon pasture, how they pour along!
Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll.
Sees every pass secured, and fences whole;
High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye,
Where many a nestling first essays to fly;
Where blows the woodbine, faintly streaked with re
And rests on every bough its tender head ;
Round the young ash its twining branches meet
Or crown the hawthorn with its odors sweet.
ROBERT BLOOMFIELD
F you cannot on the ocean
Sail among the swiftest fleet,
Rocking on the highest billows,
Laughing at the storms you meet,
You can stand among the sailors,
Anchored yet within the bay,
You can lend a hand to help them,
As they launch their boats away.
If you are too weak to journey,
Up the mountain steep and high,
You can stand within the valley,
While the multitudes go by.
You can chant in happy measure,
As they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer,
They will not forget the song.
If you have not gold and silver
Ever ready to command,
If you cannot towards the needy
Reach an ever open hand,
You can visit the afflicted,
O'er the erring you can weep,
You can be a true disciple,
Sitting at the Saviour's feet.
If you cannot in the conflict,
Prove youself a soldier true,
if where fire and smoke are thickest,
There's no work for you to do,
When the battle-field is silent,
You can go with careful tread,
You can bear away the wounded,
You can cover up the dead.
Do not then stand idly waiting
For some greater work to do,
Fortune is a lazy goddess,
She will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard,
Do not fear to do or dare,
If you want a field of labor,
You can find it anywhere.
HY don't I work? Well, sir, will you,
Right here on the spot, give me suthin' to do?
Work? Why, sir, I don't want no more
'N a chance in any man's shop or store;
That's what I'm lookin' for every day,
But thar ain't no jobs; well, what d' ye say?
Hain't got nothin' at present! Just so;
That's how it always is, I know!
Fellers like me ain't wanted much;
Folks are gen'rally jealous of such;
Thinks they ain't the right sort o' stuff—
Blessed if it isn't a kind o' rough
On a man to have folks hintin' belief
That he ain't to be trusted mor 'n a thief,
When p'r'aps his fingers are cleaner far
'N them o' chaps that talk so are.
Got a look o' the sea! Well, I 'xpect that's so
Had a hankerin' that way some years ago,
And run off; I shipped in a whaler fust,
And got cast away; but that warn't the wust;
Took fire, sir, next time, we did, and—well,
We blazed up till everything standin' fell,
And then me and Tom-my mate—and some more
Got off, with a notion of goin' ashore.
But thar warn't no shore to see about thar,
So we drifted and drifted everywhar
For a week, and then all but Tom and me
Was food for the sharks or down in the sea.
But we prayed-me and Tom-the best we could.
For a sail. It come, and at last we stood
On old 'arth once more, and the captain tolu
Us we was ashore in the land o' gold.
Gold! We didn't get much. But we struck
For the mines, of course, and tried our luck.
"I warn't bad at the start, but things went wrong
Pooty soon, for one night thar come along,
While we was asleep, some red-skin chaps,
And they made things lively round thar- perhaps
Anyhow, we left mighty quick---Tom and me,
And we didn't go back-kind o' risky, you see!
By'm-by, sir, the war come on, and then
We 'listed. Poor Tom! I was nigh him when
It all happened. He looked up and sez, sez he,
"Bill, it's come to partin' 'twixt you and me,
Old chap. I hain't much to leave-here, this knife-
Stand to your colors, Bill, while you have life!"
That was all. Yes, got wounded myself, sir, here,
And-I'm pensioned on water and air a year!
It ain't much to thank for that I'm alive,
Knockin' about like this- What, a five!
That's suthin' han'some, now, that is. I'm blest
If things don't quite frequent turn out for the best
Arter all! A V! Hi! Luck! It's far more!
Mister, I kind o' liked the looks o' your store.
You're a trump, sir, a reg-Eh? Oh, all right!
I'm off-but you are, sir, a trump, honor bright!
DANIEL CONNOLY.
LD Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when the earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung,
As he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers
As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well!
For he shall be king and lord."
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud in glee, ·
And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith! hurrah for the fire!
And hurrah for the metal true!"
But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done.
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind;
That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said, "Alas, that I ever made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword, for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!"
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low;
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high,
And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!"
And the red sparks lit the air-
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,* And he fashioned the first ploughshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands;
And sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
Our stanch good friend is he;
And, for the ploughshare and the plough,
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword."
Let not our virtues in thy love decay And thy fond sweetness waste our strength awa No, by these hills whose banners now displayed In blazing cohorts autumn has arrayed; By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests; By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravinesTrue to their home, these faithful arms shall toil To crown with peace their own untainted soil; First in the field before the red And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind, If her chained ban-dogs Faction shall unbind,
LEAR the brown path to meet his coulter's gleam! Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team, With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow, The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!
Last in the shadows when the These stately forms, that, bending even now,
Line after line, along the burst
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod.
Still where he treads the stub-
born clods divide
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide;
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves;
Un the steep hillside, where the laboring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain,
Through the moisty valley, clogged with oozing clay,
The patient convoy breaks its destined way;
At every turn the loosening chains resound,
The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears,
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers.
These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings;
This is the page whose letters shall be seen,
Changed by the sun to words of living green;
This is the scholar whose immortal pen
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men;
These are the lines that Heaven-commanded toil
Shows on his deed-the charter of the soil!
O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest,
How thy sweet features, kind to every clime,
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of time!
We stain thy flowers-thy blossom o'er the dead;
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread;
O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn,
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn;
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain,
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain.
Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms,
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land,
The same stern iron in the same right hand,
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run-
The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
HE sunburnt mowers are in the swath-
Swing, swing, swing!
The towering lilies loath
Tremble and totter and fall;
Dashes its tassels of golden dew;
And the keen blade sweeps o'er all-
Swing, swing, swing!
The flowers, the berries, the feathered grass,
Are thrown in a smothered mass;
Hastens away the butterfly;
With half their burden the brown bees hie;
And the meadow-lark shrieks distrest,
And leaves the poor younglings all in the nest
The daisies clasp and fall;
And totters the jacob's-ladder tail.
Weaving and winding and curving lithe,
O'er plumy hillocks-through dewy hollows
His subtile scythe
The nodding mower follows-
Swing, swing, swing!
Anon, the chiming whetstones ring--
Ting-a-ling! ting-a-ling!
And the mower now
Pauses and wipes his beaded brow.
A moment he scans the fleckless sky;
A moment, the fish-hawk soaring high;
And watches the swallows dip and dive
Anear and afar.
June is too early for richest hay;
(Fair weather, fair weather ;)
The corn stretches taller the livelong day; But grass is ever too sappy to lay ;~(Clip all together!)
June is too early for richest hay.
August's a month that too far goes by; (Late weather, late weather ;)
Grasshoppers are chipper and kick too high! And grass that's standing is fodder scorched ary(Pull all together!)
August's a month that too far goes by.
July is just in the nick of time!
(Best weather, best weather ;)
The midsummer month is the golden prime For haycocks smelling of clover and thyme ;(Strike all together!)
July is just in the nick of time!
Still hiss the scythes!
Shudder the grasses' defenceless blades-
The lily-throng writhes;
And, as a phalanx of wild-geese streams.
Where the shore of April's cloudland gleams,
On their dizzy way. in serried grades—
Wing on wing. wing on wing-
The mowers, each a step in advance
Of his fellow, time their stroke with a glance
Of swerveless force;
And far through the meadow leads their course—
Swing, swing, swing!
THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.
WING them upon the sunny hilis.
When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining rills
Is loveliest to the sight.
Sing them along the misty moor.
Where ancient hunters roved,
And swell them through the torrent's roar—
The songs our fathers loved!
The songs their souls rejoiced to hear
When harps were in the hall,
And each proud note made lance and spear
Thrill on the bannered wall:
The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age,
Like his own river's voice, have been
The peasant's heritage.
The reaper sings them when the vale
Is filled with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale
Cheered homeward through the leaves:
And unto them the glancing oars
A joyous measure keep,
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep.
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