O, may no hurricane destroy
His visionary views of joy!
God of the winds! O, hear his humble prayer,
And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blus-
tering whirlwind spare!
A COUNTRY life is sweet!
In moderate cold and heat,
To walk in the air how pleasant and fair!
In every field of wheat,
The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,
And every meadow's brow;
So that I say, no courtier may
Compare with them who clothe in gray,
And follow the useful plow.
They rise with the morning lark,
And labor till almost dark,
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, they 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 tasseled 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,
Let not our virtues in thy love decay,
Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep; And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away. While every pleasant park
Next morning is ringing with birds that are
singing
On each green, tender bough.
With what content and merriment
Their days are spent, whose minds are bent
To follow the useful plow!
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 ravines, -
True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil
To crown with peace their own untainted soil;
And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind,
If her chained ban-dogs Faction shall unbind,
CLEAR the brown path to meet his coulter's These stately forms, that, bending even now,
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 plow!
First in the field before the reddening sun,
Last in the shadows when the day is done,
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod.
Still where he treads the stubborn clods divide,
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plow,
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 plowshare won!
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide; THE sunburnt mowers are in the swath
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves;
Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain,
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing
clay,
The patient convoy breaks its destined way;
At every turn the loosening chains resound,
The swinging plowshare 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;
Swing, swing, swing!
The towering lilies loth
Tremble, and totter, and fall;
The meadow-rue
Dashes its tassels of golden dew;
And the keen blade sweeps o'er all-
Swing, swing, swing!
The flowers, the berries, the plumed grass,
Fall 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.
This is the rage whose letters shall be seen,
Changelly the san to words of living green;
is the wholar whow immortal pen
wells the first jean, hunger taught to men;
These are the uses that heaven-commanded Toil
Shows on his dei,—the charter of the soil!
1 ma jons Mither, whose benignant breast
Wakes us to lie, and lells us all to rest,
How thy sweet festures, kind to every clime,
Vw with their safe the wrinkled front of Time!
We can thy flowers, - they blossom o'er the
deal:
Wemal tår boson, and it gives us bread;
er the red bid that trampling strife has torn,
Wares the green plumage of thy tasseled corn;
making fits scar thy fairest plain,
ft answer is the growing grain.
Yet, Over Mother, while uncounted charms
stiti mond vir hearts in thine embracing arms,
Letast var votues in thy love decay,
baren der And thy find sweetness waste our strength away.
Na be the !s whose hanners now displayed
orts Autumn Las arrayed:
e twin san mits, on whose splintery crests - Letløks bold the eagles' nests; - plains the mountain circle screens, swith stretniets from its dark ravines,-their he, these faithful arms shall toil own with pease their own untainted soil; trot God, to freedom, to mankind, In her boned hands Faction shall unbind, Le stately forms, that, bending even now, ■at their streng muhood to the humble plow, rse eret, the gardians of the land, she stem res in the same right hand, er their Lills the shouts of triumph run; et has rescued what the plowshare won!
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