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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 bandogs Faction shall unbind,
These stately forms, that, bending even now,
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.
THE FARMER'S BOY.
WHERE noble Grafton spreads his rich domains, Round Euston's watered vale and sloping plains, Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise, Where the kite brooding unmolested flies, The woodcock and the painted pheasant race, And skulking foxes, destined for the chase; There Giles, untaught and unrepining, strayed Through every copse and grove and winding
That stamps devotion on the inquiring mind.
A little farm his generous master tilled,
Who with peculiar grace his station filled;
By deeds of hospitality endeared,
Served from affection, for his worth revered.
A happy offspring blest his plenteous board,
His fields were fruitful, and his barns well stored,
And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team,
And lowing kine that grazed beside the stream;
Unceasing industry he kept in view,
And never lacked a job for Giles to do.
His simple errand done, he homeward hies;
There his first thoughts to Nature's charms in- Another instantly his place supplies.
Fled now the sullen murmurs of the north, The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth; Her universal green and the clear sky Delight still more and more the gazing eye. Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along The mellowed soil, imbibing fairer hues, Orsweets from frequent showers and evening dews; That summon from their sheds the slumbering ploughs,
No helpmates teach the docile steed his road
(Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad);
But unassisted, through each toilsome day,
With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way,
Draws his fresh parallels, and, widening still,
Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill.
Strong on the wing his busy followers play,
Where writhing earthworms meet the unwelcome
While health impregnates every breeze that blows. No wheels support the diving, pointed share; No groaning ox is doomed to labor there;
Till all is changed, and hill and level down
Assume a livery of sober brown;
Again disturbed when Giles with wearying strides
From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides.
His heels deep sinking, every step he goes,
Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes.
Welcome, green headland ! firm beneath his feet:
Welcome, the friendly bank's refreshing seat;
There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse
Their sheltering canopy of pendent boughs;
Till rest delicious chase each transient pain,
And new-born vigor swell in every vein.
Hour after hour and day to day succeeds,
Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads
To crumbling mould, -a level surface clear,
And strewed with corn to crown the rising year;
And o'er the whole Giles, once transverse again,
In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain.
The work is done; no more to man is given;
The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven.
The clattering dairy-maid immersed in steam, Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream, Bawls out, "Go fetch the cows!" he hears no
For pigs and ducks and turkeys throng the door,
And sitting hens for constant war prepared, —
A concert strange to that which late he heard.
Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes;
With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows;
Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze,
Or hear the summons with an idle gaze;
For well they know the cow-yard yields no more
Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store.
Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow,
The right of conquest all the law they know;
The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed,
And one superior always takes the lead,
Is ever foremost wheresoe'er they stray,
Allowed precedence, undisputed sway;
With jealous pride her station is maintained,
For many a broil that post of honor gained.
At home, the yard affords a grateful scene,
For spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean.
Thence from its chalky bed behold conveyed
The rich manure that drenching winter made,
Which, piled near home, grows green with many | Clang, clang!— again, my mates, what grows a weed,
Beneath the hammer's potent blows?
Clink, clank! — we forge the giant chain,
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain
Midst stormy winds and adverse tides;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.
A promised nutriment for autumn's seed.
Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles;
The mistress too, and followed close by Giles.
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat,
With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet.
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray
Begins the work, begins the simple lay;
The full-charged udder yields its willing stream
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dream;
And crouching Giles beneath a neighboring tree
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee;
Whose hat with battered brim, of nap so bare,
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, --
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,
An unambitious, peaceable cockade.
As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid;
With joy she views her plenteous reeking store,
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door.
Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead to roam,
Till eve again recall them loaded home.
Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
Calmly he rests, though far away,
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay, -
Reliant on our skill.
Say on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep?
By Afric's pestilential shore;
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar;
By many a balmy western isle,
Basking in spring's perpetual smile;
By stormy Labrador.
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road;
Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad;
The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the board;
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains,
But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains,
And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high,
Then moves his head, as though he said, “Fear nothing, - here am I !"
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime!
But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let
the burden be,
The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal crafts
Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red!
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped;
anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
anchor soon must change the lay of merry
For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and
the sighing seaman's cheer;
| When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far
from love and home,
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the
The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at
It rises, roars, rends all outright, -O Vulcan,
what a glow!
"Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright, the
high sun shines not so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery
fearful show, -
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the
ruddy, lurid row
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men
before the foe;
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow
Sinks on the anvil, — all about the faces fiery
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out":
bang, bang, the sledges go;
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high
In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down
shapely one he is, and strong as e'er from cat was cast.
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strew
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;
And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!
O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?
The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 't were now
To go plump plunging down amid the assembly
of the whales,
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath
their scourging tails!
Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er
with its breath:
But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men,
Who, with hammer or chisel or pencil, with rudder or ploughshare or pen,
Laboreth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life,
Winning home and its darling divinities,-loveworshipped children and wife.
Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings,
And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings,
He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king
of his race,
Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the face.
DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.
A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY.
["Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where
the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people. who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the
cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally sang the Doxology over them.” — Spectator of May 14, 1863.
TO LABOR IS TO PRAY.
Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, PAUSE not to dream of the future before us;
sorrow, and death!
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
"PRAISE God from whom all blessings flow,"
Praise him who sendeth joy and woe.
The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives,
O praise him, all that dies, and lives.
He opens and he shuts his hand,
But why we cannot understand:
Pours and dries up his mercies' flood,
And yet is still All-perfect Good.
We fathom not the mighty plan,
The mystery of God and man;
We women, when afflictions come,
We only suffer and are dumb.
And when, the tempest passing by,
He gleams out, sunlike, through our sky,
We look up, and through black clouds riven
We recognize the smile of Heaven.
Ours is no wisdom of the wise,
We have no deep philosophies;
Childlike we take both kiss and rod,
For he who loveth knoweth God.
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.