Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill,
And darting down the valley flies,
At every casement welcome still,
The golden summons of the skies.
Go, fetch my staff, and o'er the dews
Let echo waft thy gladsome voice;
Shall we a cheerful note refuse,
When rising morn proclaims "rejoice "?
Now then, we'll start; and thus I'll sing,
Our store, a trivial load to bear;
Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting,
I'll not encroach on Rover's share.
The fresh breeze bears its sweets along;
The lark but chides us while we stay ;
Soon shall the vale repeat my song,
Go, brush before, away, away!
WHEN once I leave the town behind,
What rapture animates my mind;
Rejoic'd I hail heaven, earth and sea,
So dear is this fair scene to me!
Around I look with gladden'd eyes,
Like some exulting bird that flies
Forth from its narrow prison-door,
And mounts and sings still more and more.
And all around appears so fair,
Though drest in winter's vesture bare-
The frozen lake, so hard and white;
The woods with twinkling diamonds bright.
Among the branches to and fro,
The little songsters come and go;
Rejoicing in the transient ray
That streams upon the wither'd spray.
Here infant seeds prepare to shoot,
Peeping beneath their snowy suit;
Down to the vale the roebuck hies,
Where soft sweet moss attracts his eyes.
Whatever change thy features mould,
Nature, to me thou'rt never old!
Nature! so kind and true a mate,
And yet so awful and so great!
THE GOOD OLD PLOUGH.
LET them sing who may of the battle fray,
And the deeds that have long since past:
Let them chant in praise of the tar whose days
Are spent on the ocean vast.
I would render to these all the worship you please,
I would honour them even now;
But I'd give far more from my heart's full store,
To the cause of the Good Old Plough.
Let them laud the notes that in music float
Through the bright and glittering halls:
While the graceful twirl of the hair's bright curl
Round the shoulder of beauty falls.
But dearer to me is the song from the tree,
And the rich and blossoming bough;
O, these are the sweets which the rustic greets,
As he follows the Good Old Plough.
Full many there be, that daily we see,
With a selfish and hollow pride,
Who the ploughman's lot, in his humble cot,
With a scornful look deride :
But I'd rather take a hearty shake
From his hand, than to wealth I'd bow;
For the honest clasp of his hand's rough grasp
Has stood by the Good Old Plough.
All honour be then to those gray old men,
When at last they are bow'd with toil;
Their warfare then o'er, they battle no more,
For they've conquer'd the stubborn soil.
And the chaplet each wears is his silver hairs,
And ne'er shall the victor's brow
With a laurel crown to the grave go down
Like the sons of the Good Old Plough.
THE SOWER'S SONG
Now hands to seed-sheet, boys,
We step and we cast; old times on wing;
And would ye partake of harvest's joys,
The corn must be sown in spring.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed; And stand so yellow some morn, For beast and man must be fed
Old earth is a pleasure to see
In sunshiny cloak of red and green,
The furrow lies fresh; this year will be
As years that are past have been.
Fall gently, &c.
Old mother, receive this corn,
The son of six thousand golden sires :
All these on thy kindly breast were born;
One more thy poor child requires.
Fall gently, &c.
Now steady and sure again,
And measure of stroke and step we keep ; Thus up and down we cast our grain,
Sow well, and you gladly reap.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed;
And stand so yellow some morn,
For beast and man must be fed.
Carlyle.
TAKE down the sickle, boys! hurrah!
The ears of ripened grain
Are waiting for the reaper's hand
Upon the fertile plain!
The mellow moon, the changing leaves,
The earlier setting sun,
Proclaim, at last, my merry boys,
The harvest-time begun.
Thick on the hills, to-morrow noon
The gathered stock must see,
And with the loads of yellow corn
Shall groan the axle-tree;
The frost, my boys, will soon be here!
And winter's on the way,-
These glorious days will never, boys,
For lazy farmers stay!
Take down the sickle, boys! hurrah!
While loads of ripened grain
Are waiting for the
Upon the fruitful plain,
We'll gather up the golden corn
In thankfulness once more,
And fill with the returning seed
Our baskets and our store.
HARK! from woodlands far
Sounds the merry roundelay;
Now across the russet plain
Slowly moves the loaded wain.
Greet the reapers as they come
Happy, happy harvest home!
Never fear the wintry blast,—
Summer suns will shine at last!
See the golden grain appear,
See the produce of the year.
Greet the reapers as they come-
Happy, happy harvest home!
Children join the jocund ring,
Young and old come forth and sing;
Stripling blithe and maiden gay
Hail the rural holiday.
Greet the reapers as they come-
Happy, happy harvest home!
Peace and plenty be our lot,
All the pangs of war forgot;
Strength to toil and ample store,
Bless Old England evermore.
Greet the reapers as they come--
Happy, happy harvest home!
MERRILY GOES THE MILL.
MERRILY rolls the mill-stream on,
Merrily goes the mill,
And merry to-night shall be my song,
As ever the gay lark's trill.
While the stream shall flow,
And the mill shall go,
And my garners are bravely stored:
Come all who will,
There's a welcome still
At the joyful miller's board.
Well may the miller's heart be light,
Well may his song be gay,
For the rich man's smile and the
Have been his for many a day.
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