Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast, The sooty smithy jars, And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, Are fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand Beside that flashing forge; All day for us his heavy hand The groaning anvil scourge.
From far-off hills, the panting team For us is toiling near; For us the raftsmen down the stream Their island barges steer.
Rings out for us the axe-man"s stroke In forests old and still; For us the century-circled oak Falls crashing down his hill.
Up! up! in n.o.bler toil than ours No craftsmen bear a part We make of Nature"s giant powers The slaves of human Art.
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, And drive the treenails free; Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam Shall tempt the searching sea.
Where"er the keel of our good ship The sea"s rough field shall plough; Where"er her tossing spars shall drip With salt-spray caught below; That ship must heed her master"s beck, Her helm obey his hand, And seamen tread her reeling deck As if they trod the land.
Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak Of Northern ice may peel; The sunken rock and coral peak May grate along her keel; And know we well the painted sh.e.l.l We give to wind and wave, Must float, the sailor"s citadel, Or sink, the sailor"s grave.
Ho! strike away the bars and blocks, And set the good ship free!
Why lingers on these dusty rocks The young bride of the sea?
Look! how she moves adown the grooves, In graceful beauty now!
How lowly on the breast she loves Sinks down her virgin prow.
G.o.d bless her! wheresoe"er the breeze Her snowy wing shall fan, Aside the frozen Hebrides, Or sultry Hindostan!
Where"er, in mart or on the main, With peaceful flag unfurled, She helps to wind the silken chain Of commerce round the world!
Speed on the ship! But let her bear No merchandise of sin, No groaning cargo of despair Her roomy hold within; No Lethean drug for Eastern lands, Nor poison-draught for ours; But honest fruits of toiling hands And Nature"s sun and showers.
Be hers the Prairie"s golden grain, The Desert"s golden sand, The cl.u.s.tered fruits of sunny Spain, The spice of Morning-land!
Her pathway on the open main May blessings follow free, And glad hearts welcome back again Her white sails from the sea 1846.
THE DROVERS.
THROUGH heat and cold, and shower and sun, Still onward cheerly driving There"s life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving.
But see! the day is closing cool, The woods are dim before us; The white fog of the wayside pool Is creeping slowly o"er us.
The night is falling, comrades mine, Our footsore beasts are weary, And through yon elms the tavern sign Looks out upon us cheery.
The landlord beckons from his door, His beechen fire is glowing; These ample barns, with feed in store, Are filled to overflowing.
From many a valley frowned across By brows of rugged mountains; From hillsides where, through spongy moss, Gush out the river fountains; From quiet farm-fields, green and low, And bright with blooming clover; From vales of corn the wandering crow No richer hovers over;
Day after day our way has been O"er many a hill and hollow; By lake and stream, by wood and glen, Our stately drove we follow.
Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun, As smoke of battle o"er us, Their white horns glisten in the sun, Like plumes and crests before us.
We see them slowly climb the hill, As slow behind it sinking; Or, thronging close, from roadside rill, Or sunny lakelet, drinking.
Now crowding in the narrow road, In thick and struggling ma.s.ses, They glare upon the teamster"s load, Or rattling coach that pa.s.ses.
Anon, with toss of horn and tail, And paw of hoof, and bellow, They leap some farmer"s broken pale, O"er meadow-close or fallow.
Forth comes the startled goodman; forth Wife, children, house-dog, sally, Till once more on their dusty path The baffled truants rally.
We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony, Like those who grind their noses down On pastures bare and stony,-- Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs, And cows too lean for shadows, Disputing feebly with the frogs The crop of saw-gra.s.s meadows!
In our good drove, so sleek and fair, No bones of leanness rattle; No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there, Or Pharaoh"s evil cattle.
Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand That fed him unrepining; The fatness of a goodly land In each dun hide is shining.
We"ve sought them where, in warmest nooks, The freshest feed is growing, By sweetest springs and clearest brooks Through honeysuckle flowing; Wherever hillsides, sloping south, Are bright with early gra.s.ses, Or, tracking green the lowland"s drouth, The mountain streamlet pa.s.ses.
But now the day is closing cool, The woods are dim before us, The white fog of the wayside pool Is creeping slowly o"er us.
The cricket to the frog"s ba.s.soon His shrillest time is keeping; The sickle of yon setting moon The meadow-mist is reaping.
The night is falling, comrades mine, Our footsore beasts are weary, And through yon elms the tavern sign Looks out upon us cheery.
To-morrow, eastward with our charge We"ll go to meet the dawning, Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge Have seen the sun of morning.
When snow-flakes o"er the frozen earth, Instead of birds, are flitting; When children throng the glowing hearth, And quiet wives are knitting; While in the fire-light strong and clear Young eyes of pleasure glisten, To tales of all we see and hear The ears of home shall listen.
By many a Northern lake and bill, From many a mountain pasture, Shall Fancy play the Drover still, And speed the long night faster.
Then let us on, through shower and sun, And heat and cold, be driving; There "s life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving.
1847.
THE HUSKERS.
IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with gra.s.s again; The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay With the hues of summer"s rainbow, or the meadow-flowers of May.
Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red, At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped; Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued, On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood.
And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night, He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light; Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill; And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still.
And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky, Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why; And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks, Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.
From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weatherc.o.c.ks; But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks.
No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel"s dropping sh.e.l.l, And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.
The summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry, Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye; But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood.
Bent low, by autumn"s wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere, Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold, And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin"s sphere of gold.
There wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last, And like a merry guest"s farewell, the day in brightness pa.s.sed.
And to! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond, Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, Slowly o"er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!
As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay; From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.
Swung o"er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below; The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o"er.
Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart; While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.
Urged by the good host"s daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking ballad sung.