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, 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes : AS SUNG BY THE HUTCHINSONS.

He dreams of crowded barns, and round LET them sing who may of the battle fray,

The yard he hears the flail resound; And the deeds that have long since past;

0, may no hurricane destroy Let them chant in praise of the tar whose days,

| His visionary views of joy! Are spent on the ocean vast.

'God of the winds ! O, hear his humble prayer, I would render to these all the worship you please,

And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy I would honor them even now ;

blustering whirlwind spare ! 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 hall ;
While the amorous twirl of the hair's bright curl

Round the shoulder of beauty fall.
But dearer to me is the song from the tree,

And the rich and blossoming bough;
0, these are the sweets which the rustic greets

As he follows the Good Old Plough!

CLEAR 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!

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, aye, a hearty shake

From his hand than to wealth I'd bow ;
For the honest grasp of his hand's rough clasp, .
Has stood by the Good Old Plough.

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,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide;
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,
Theswinging ploughshare circles glistening round,
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears,
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers.

All honor be, then, to these gray old men,

When at last they are bowed with toil ! Their warfare then o'er, they battle no more,

For they've conquered 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.


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 !


PLEASING 't is, O modest Moon!
Now the night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat,
Ripened by the summer's heat ;
Picturing all the rustic's joy
When boundless plenty greets his eye,

And thinking soon,

O modest Moon !
How many a female eye will roam

Along the road,

To see the load,
The last dear load of harvest-home.

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!
Westain 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 tasselled corn;
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain,
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain.
Yet, ( our Mother, while uncounted charms
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms,
Let not our virtues in thy love decay,
| And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away.


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No, by these hills whose banners now displayed | No helpmates teach the docile steed his road
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed; | (Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad);
By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests But unassisted, through each toilsome day,
The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests; With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way,
By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, Draws his fresh parallels, and, widening still,
And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines, — Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill.
True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil Strong on the wing his busy,
To crown with peace their own untainted soil ; Where writhing earthworms meet the unwelcome
And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind,
If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind, Till all is changed, and hill and level dowr
These stately forms, that, bending even now, Assume a livery of sober brown;
Rowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, Again disturbed when Giles with wearying strides
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides
The same stern iron in the same right hand, His heels deep sinking, every step he goes,
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run; Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes.
The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won! Welcome, green headland ! firm beneath his feet:
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 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,
THE FARMER'S BOY. . And new-born vigor swell in every vein.

Hour after hour and day to day succeeds, WHERE noble Grafton spreads his rich domains, Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads Round Euston's watered vale and sloping plains, To crumbling mould, - a level surface clear, Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise, And strewed with corn to crown the rising year; Where the kite brooding unmolested flies, And o'er the whole Giles, once transverse again, The woodcock and the painted pheasant race, In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain. And skulking foxes, destined for the chase; The work is done ; no more to man is given ; There Giles, untaught and unrepining, strayed The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven. Through every copse and grove and winding glade;

| His simple errand done, he homeward hies ; There his first thoughts tɔ Nature's charms in. Another instantly his place supplies. clined,

The clattering dairy-maid immersed in steam, That stamps devotion on the inquiring mind. Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream, A little farm his generous master tilled, Bawls out, “Go fetch the cows !” – he hears no Who with peculiar grace his station filled;

more ; By deeds of hospitality endeared,

For pigs and ducks and turkeys throng the Served from affection, for his worth revered, I door, A happy offspring blest his plenteous board, And sitting hens for constant war prepared, His fields were fruitful, and his barns well, stored, A concert strange to that which late he heard. And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team, Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes; And lowing kine that grazed beside the stream; With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows ; Unceasing industry he kept in view,

Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze, And never lacked a job for Giles to do.

Or hear the summons with an idle gaze;

For well they know the cow-yard yields no more Fled now the sullen murmurs of the north, Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store. The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth ; Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow, Her universal green and the clear sky

The right of conquest all the law they know; Delight still more and more the gazing eye. The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed, Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, And one superior always takes the lead, Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along Is ever foremost wheresoe'er they stray, The mellowed soil, imbibing fairer hues, Allowed precedence, undisputed sway ;' Orsweets from frequent showers and evening dews; With jealous pride her station is maintained, That summon from their sheds the slumbering For many a broil that post of honor gained. ploughs,

At home, the yard affords a grateful scene, While health impregnates every breeze that blows. For spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. No wheels support the diving, pointed share; Thence from its chalky bed behold conveyed No groaning ox is doomed to labor there; The rich manure that drenching winter made,

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