■e 
 
 s". 
 
 •^c 
 
 
THE 
 
 HARP AND PLOW 
 
 BY THE 
 
 £> <X'V V. ■vVn^t^*^^ 
 
 Sing of New-England, favored land ! 
 Her customs dear — her social band — '^^(m^"^ 
 Her everlasting liills that stand 
 
 Above her meads, 
 As v/hen at first, by His command, 
 
 They reared their heads! — 
 
 Vision of Poesy, page 76. 
 
 GREENFIELD : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY M. H. TYLER. 
 
 1852. 
 
C4 H3 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1852, by 
 
 JOSIAH D. CANNING, 
 in the Clerk's Oilice of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 1-^ 
 
 :H50 
 
 GUEENFIELD : 
 C. A. MIRICK, PKINTER. 
 
PREPACE. 
 
 Grateful to an indulgent public for the favor extend- 
 ed to him in former publications of his poems, the author 
 respectfully tenders the present revised selection. 
 
 To the arioso strains of the exquisite poet, or the un- 
 intelligible profoundness of the laureat bard, he neither 
 inclines nor aspires. Content will he be should his rea- 
 ders discover a vein of homely but honest common sense 
 running through his pages ; and he begs those, super- 
 critically disposed, to take into consideration the want of 
 ' elegant literary leisure' in one -whose daily life consists 
 of the laborious whoahaw-buck avocations of the farmer ; 
 one who, in place of the classical toga of the scholar, is 
 clad in the chequered garb of the plough. 
 
 It is Avhile pursuing the labors of the farm, amidst the 
 melodies of nature and her varied scenery of mountain, 
 flood, and field ; it is amidst the vicissitudes of the sea- 
 sons, — the shooting blades of spring, the leafy honors of 
 summer, the gorgeous dyes of autumn, and the drift- 
 bearing blasts of winter, — that the muse has blessed the 
 author with her whispered inspirations. She saw him a 
 scion of revolutionary patriots who ' sought with the 
 sword placid rest under Liberty,' and bade him cherish 
 their memory, and fan with Vestal vigilance the fire of 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 PATRIOTISM which Warmed their own noble hearts. She 
 saw him looking with pity upon the zeal of the fanatic, 
 and with scorn upon the heart-sickening insolence of the 
 vain and Iwpocritical, and taking him kindly by the hand, 
 led him far from the one, and lifted him high above the 
 other. She bade him bow with adoration only to the 
 great Giver of gifts, good and perfect, — the wellspring 
 of Light, Liberty, and Happiness. She has wedded his 
 Harp to his Plough, and in the stillness of seclusion has 
 mingled for him the ' sweet with the useful.' 
 
 Should the following pages serve faintly to picture to 
 the citizen the simple beauties of rural life ; should they 
 furnish entertainment for the leisure hours of his hardy 
 brother farmer ; for the social group of the winter's fire- 
 side ; should they serve to beguile the lone hours of some 
 wandering son of New England, and incite in his bosom 
 endearing recollections of his native land ; should they 
 wake devotion to his country in the honest heart of the 
 patriot, — the most ambitious wish of the author will be 
 attained. 
 
 JOSIAH D. CANNING. 
 
 Gill, Franklin County, Mass., 
 May, 1852. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 A •' Midsummer Night's Dream,' 121 
 
 A Poor Man's Epitaph, 166 
 
 An Autumnal Leaf, 78 
 
 April, 52 
 
 August, 60 
 
 December, 67 
 
 Epistle to a distinguished Friend, 132 
 
 " to a western Poet, 157 
 
 <• to an Author, 162 
 
 Epitaph, 134 
 
 " on a lazy fellow, 138 
 
 Farewell to the Valley, 135 
 
 February, 49 
 
 Impromptu to Monadnock mountain, 165 
 
 " to the Charter-Oak, 167 
 
 " on seeing a fellow nodding in church, . . 147 
 
 Inferior animals afford instruction to man, . . . 168 
 
 Invocation, 7 
 
 January, 47 
 
 July, 57 
 
 June, 56 
 
 Lays of a Twelvemonth, 47 
 
 Legend of the Isle, 22 
 
 Lines on the death of little Clara, 83 
 
 " to a Bullet from the field of Waterloo, ... 87 
 
 « to a Bee, 95 
 
 « addressed to " Old Knick," 203 
 
 March, 51 
 
 May, 54 
 
 My Brother's ocean-grave, 85 
 
 November, 65 
 
 1* 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 October, . . . . 
 
 Potatoes, .... 
 
 September, . . . . 
 
 Thanksgiving Eve 
 
 Tiie Farmer to his Plough, 
 
 Ttie Harvest moon. 
 
 The Thresher and the Rat, 
 
 The Trout upon the shallows, 
 
 The Moon in the Wilderness, 
 
 The Prairie Cock, 
 
 The Way it is done, 
 
 To a Red Squirrel, . 
 
 To a Wild Rose, . 
 
 To an old pair of Breeches, 
 
 To my old Dog, 
 
 Vision of Poesy, 
 
 INDEX TO SONGS 
 
 AsHUELOT River. 
 
 ' By the deep nine !' 
 
 Columbia rules the Sea, 
 
 Down by the brook where willow 
 
 Freedom's own, 
 
 Hoe out your row ! 
 
 July Fourth, 
 
 Lament of the Cherokee, 
 
 Ley den Glen, 
 
 The Adieu, . 
 
 The Banks of Maumee, 
 
 The Eagles of Columbia, 
 
 The Minute-man, 
 
 The Old Farmer's Elegy, 
 
 The Old Pod-auger Days, 
 
 Washing by the brook, 
 
 AVhere Housatonic gently threads 
 
 ' Where Liberty dwells, there is my country 
 
INVOCATION 
 
 Ye nymphs of song, ye spirits sweet, who haunt my native hills, 
 Ye who in tiny shallops glide down all their tinkling rills ; 
 Whose voices soft at eventide, when mild is Luna's beam, 
 One hears amid the willows green beside the lonely stream ; — 
 
 Come from your mountain dwellings, those airy summits high, 
 That look into, and take their hue from out the azure sky ; 
 And moor your fairy vessels, scooped from acorns of the tree, 
 And from your tuneful streams come up and listen unto me ;— 
 
 Ye 've given me a soul of song, ye 've given me a lyre. 
 And touched a true New-England heart with patriotic fire ; 
 And fain for thee, my country, would I strike an honoring strain, 
 And sing sweet Ash-u-e-lot's banks, and lift Mo-nad-nock's mane ! 
 
 Ah, must that lyre in silence hang upon the willow bough! 
 My hand is heavy grown with toil, and calloused by the plough ; 
 And when I lift it for a song, and out its numbers bring, [string ! 
 How rude the touch, and harsh the note that struggles from the 
 
 When from * the loop-hole of retreat' abroad I cast a look, 
 And see the candidates that Fame is jotting in her book ; 
 And when I note the eager host that throng to catch her eye, 
 Faint is my heart, and small my hope her majesty to try. 
 
 Then oft, in reckless mood, I've thrown beside the plough-share 
 
 bright. 
 That lyre, resolved the furrows deep should hide it from my sight, 
 Determined never to attempt again the tuneful strain : 
 But when the plough came round about, up turned the lyre again. 
 
VIII. INVOCATION. 
 
 Now, something in my breast has fixed the resolution strong 
 Henceforth to cherish with my life the sacred gift of song ; 
 My country dear may lend an ear ; but e'en if she refrain, 
 I '11 have some music on life's march, if but a private strain. 
 
 So be content, ye Nymphs of Song, around my ways to dwell ; 
 Tho' all unseen by common eyes, I '11 mark your presence well ; 
 I '11 see you on the tempest's blast, and on the zephyr's wing, 
 I '11 hear you in the torrent's roar, and in the bubbling spring. 
 
 Up to the mountain's breezy top attend me as I go. 
 When calm the blue expanse above, and sweet the scene below ; 
 When Autumn lingers o'er the land in gorgeous tire complete, 
 Her ' coat of many colors' fine, and silver-shod her feet. 
 
 I '11 note the farmer at his toil, the heavy burthened wain 
 That slowly wends its homeward way across the harvest plain ; 
 The cottages that dot the vale like scattered flakes of snow, — 
 The homes of freemen,strong and brave, — inspire me these to show. 
 
 Aid me to paint the social joys that, when Thanksgiving comes. 
 Spring sweetly round the festive board in these New-England 
 
 homes ; 
 The tales about the blazing hearth, when evening bars the doors, 
 And hollow in the chimney-top the voice of winter roars. 
 
 Aid me to read my country's lore, so rich in classic themes : 
 Her mountains, forests, lakes, and vales, and Indian-christened 
 
 streams ; 
 While living, I will give to her the boon of my regard. 
 And dying, leave for her in love the blessing of a bard. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 
 
 They round the ingle form a circle wide."— Robert Burns. 
 
 Thanksgiving ! hail thy festive cheer, 
 Thou day to all New-England dear ! 
 When Labor by his mattock throws, 
 And gives his toil-strained nerves repose ; 
 And Care, for want with whom to stay, 
 Goes off to have a holiday. 
 When scores of craking fowls must die, 
 To make the needful chicken-pie ; 
 And turkies, twirling at the fire, 
 Roast, as the de'il will roast a liar ; 
 And busy dames and lasses fair, 
 The Pilgrim's yearly feast prepare. 
 When Plenty gives from out her store 
 A dainty bit, to glad the poor, 
 And Want, with e'en his stingy grip, 
 Is lavish of his only fip. 
 When forge and smithy, shop and mill, 
 In Sabbath quietude are still. 
 And artisans of every grade 
 Are in their very best arrayed ; 
 
10 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 And farmers, in their homespun own, 
 Would scorn the wardrobe of a throne. 
 
 Thanksgiving ! day of all the year ! 
 Ancient and honored custom dear ! 
 When foes with kindlier feelings greet ; 
 When friends, long separated, meet 
 To knit anew the ties that bind 
 Kindred to kindred, mind to mind. 
 . When from the towers, in morning time. 
 Is wafted forth the tuneful chime ; 
 When all the true its call obey, 
 And tune their hearts to praise and pray, 
 And up to Zion's courts repair 
 To dwell upon God's mercies there. 
 
 To thee, thy sons, New-England, whom 
 Fortune allures abroad to roam. 
 Will oft revert, in times like these, 
 'Cross miles of land and leagues of seas. 
 And o'er again in memory live 
 Thanksgiving's blessed day and eve. 
 
 Silent, yet swift, the stream of Time 
 Goes surging down to Lethe's clime ; 
 And, swiftly as the current flows. 
 The Seasons pass to their repose. 
 Spring, from her gaudy shallop green, 
 Flings to the shore a flowery scene ; 
 And Summer, from her leafy barge, 
 Casts forth her mantle fair and large. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 11 
 
 Next, borne upon a northern air, 
 Comes Autumn ^yith her yellow hair. 
 Thro' all her shrouds the breezes blow, 
 Now wild and shrill, now lorn and low, 
 Proclaiming that ' abaft the beam,' 
 Comes Winter, whitening all the stream. 
 
 The FARMER, with a careful eye, 
 
 Notes each successive passing by ; — 
 The cold may chill, the heat may pall. 
 Still he's abroad to welcome all ; 
 And when, at length, as now, has come 
 Autumn's last moon, and ' harvest home,' 
 Complacently he sees afar 
 In the cold north the wintry war. 
 And bides the advent of the storm 
 With thankful heart, and fireside warm. 
 
 Already has the sounding flail 
 Of harvest over told the tale ; 
 The miller, o'er his hopper leaned, 
 With practised eye the seed has scann'd, 
 Declaring, as he stirs it o'er. 
 He scarce has seen as good before. 
 The flocks are gathered in their fold ; 
 The herds protected from the cold ; 
 The bees, within their waxen streets, 
 Are feasting on their treasured sweets ; 
 And all things made secure and warm 
 That frost might seize upon to harm. 
 
12 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Now Phoebus, like a wearied wighfe 
 Who scarce can wait the coming night, 
 Cuts short the day, and hastes to rest, 
 Wrapped in the vestments of the west. 
 Now steals the hill-fox from his den, 
 Through piney wood or darksome fen ; 
 But pausing, ere he dares to prowl, 
 He Hsts afar the watch-dog's howl 
 Ascending from the vale below, 
 And with his bark defies his foe. 
 
 And now the night-created star 
 Is beaming from its height afar ; 
 And palely in the northern skies 
 The mystic signal-fires arise ; 
 For in mid heaven the moon displays 
 Her silver lamp of bleaching rays. 
 Here headlong down the rocky steep 
 The rill descends with chainless leap, 
 And chafing, in its fretful course, 
 Talks to the night in accents hoarse ; 
 There by the wide expanded stream 
 The kindling bonfires brightly gleam, 
 And o'er the ice the skaters glide 
 With rapid pace and darting stride ; 
 While Echo on the shore has lent 
 Her aid to youthful merriment ; 
 And merry bells along the road 
 Tell mirth is every where abroad. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE, 13 
 
 Turn from the thronging streets of town 
 Where gas-lamps shine when suns go down, 
 And where, despite their magic wicks, 
 Full many * kick against the pricks.' 
 Turn from the sound of viols sweet, 
 The measured tread of tripping feet, 
 Where pleasure, like a night-rule born, 
 Dies in the rosy flush of morn. 
 Turn ye within the cottage walls 
 When evening on Thanksgiving falls, 
 And doff your hat, and take a chair, 
 And be ye * free and easy' there. 
 No compliments are strained to please ; 
 No forced politeness murders ease ; 
 No boorish coarseness mars a feature 
 Of common sense and right good nature. 
 
 0, blessed eve, to converse given ! 
 0, foretaste of the bliss of heaven ! 
 There's nothing wanting but a tongue 
 To sing it, as it should be sung. 
 
 The fire upon the hearth-stone glows ; 
 The circle wide before it grows ; 
 The tale is told, the song is sung. 
 Wit falls unstudied from the tongue. 
 The thought humane is cast abroad ; 
 The beggar on the frozen road, 
 The sailor on the stormy seas, 
 The Indian 'neath the leafless trees, 
 
 2 
 
14 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 The child of Want, where'er he be, 
 This evening shares their sympathy, 
 And Pity, gentlest child of heaven, 
 Breaks unto these her blessed leaven. 
 
 The parents joy again to see 
 Their widely scattered family 
 At home with happy greetings meet, 
 Like pheasants, in secure retreat, 
 Whom winding horns, and coursing hounds. 
 Have frighted from their morning grounds ;- 
 Who dress their plumes, no missing one, 
 Forgetful of the ' slaughtering gun.' 
 
 In the arm-chair that fronts the fire, 
 There sits the patriarchal sire, 
 Dressed in his garb of youthful prime, 
 All for the love of olden time. 
 There's Christian hope and heavenly peace 
 In every feature of his face ; 
 There's strength, and fields of labor won 
 In oak-like arms and palms of bone ; 
 There's wisdom in his hairs of snow ; 
 There's honor on his lofty brow ; 
 His eyes with youthful brilliance shine, 
 While in his cue there's ^ auld lang syne.' 
 
 The dame, good woman, by his side. 
 Just fifty years, this night, a bride ! — 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 16 
 
 Some angel, or good spirit other, 
 
 Paint for me this New England mother ! 
 
 Reader, think of perfection human, 
 
 And you'll be thinking of the woman. 
 
 Her placid face, her tidy cap, 
 
 The clean check' d apron o'er her lap ; 
 
 No friend of Fashion, like some daughters 
 
 Born midst New England's vales and waters. 
 
 Would they the fickle jade forsake 
 
 And this good grandame imitate ! 
 
 The very heathen then should know 
 
 Of angels dwelling here below. 
 
 On either hand this ancient pair, 
 Are ranged the stalwart and the fair : 
 The daughter given to another 
 Who ' sticketh closer than a brother,' 
 And with him from a distance come 
 To spend Thanksgiving day at home, 
 And let her doting parents scan 
 Her wee edition of a man ; 
 The cousin, bright-eyed, buxom, merry, 
 Her cheeks the rose, her lips the cherry ; — 
 (Forbidden fruit ! so was the apple 
 That Adam easy found to grapple ;) 
 The comely youth to manhood grown. 
 No man of cloth, but nerve and bone ; 
 Of that true-hearted stock a scion. 
 That dauntless faced the British lion ; 
 Such as. New England, may thy God 
 Forever raise upon thy sod, 
 
16 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 And wide their gallant branches spread, 
 Nursed by the ashes of thy dead ! 
 
 See in yon chimney corner wide 
 A sanguine lad, his mother's pride, 
 A restless, romance-loving child, 
 Not wholly staid, nor wholly wild 9 
 Preparing for to-morrow's sun, 
 The snowy wilds, and dog and gun. 
 There, as the bullets swift are rolled 
 And glowing, from his brazen mouldy 
 His whispers to another tell 
 How by his aim some victim fell ; 
 How late the partridge he did win 
 Full half a furlong, in the glen ; 
 Or how the river-fowl in spring 
 His bullet crippled, on the wing ; 
 And skillful feats as strange as true, 
 Which he had done, and yet could do. 
 
 And here, too, is an elder son. 
 For years from home an absent one. 
 He hails from western lands afar 
 Where Fortune lifts her blazing star ; 
 Backwoodsman-like he gives a zest 
 To all the romance of the West, 
 And with a spirit-stirring air 
 Tells of his wild adventures there ;— 
 The hair-breadth 'scape from bloody death 
 What time he stopped the panther's breath ; 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 17 
 
 How, camped one night beyond the border, 
 His bed-mate was the mas-sa-sau-der,* 
 And dreaming of some danger nigh 
 He woke to hear its 'larum cry. 
 Or how some guardian angel's hand 
 Brought safe his frail canoe to land, 
 When in the dark and hollowed wave 
 The howling demon scooped his grave ; 
 What scenes his sinking thoughts beguiled 
 When wildered in the dismal wild ; 
 How the dark, pensive Indian chief 
 Came to him, like a drifting leaf, 
 In silence heard his grievous tale 
 And took the wanderer in his trail ; 
 O'er mazy miles, with tireless pace, 
 Guided him to the wished-for place 
 As straight as flies the homeward bee, 
 Nor sought, nor would accept a fee. 
 
 And there is seen a pauvre neighbor. 
 Worn out with care and thriftless labor, 
 Invited to enjoy a treat, 
 And with his bitter mix a sweet. 
 This night his grateful heart o'erflows ; 
 Unwonted cheer dispels his woes. 
 And kindly notice makes him vain — 
 He feels himself a man again. 
 
 A species of the rattlesnake ; so called by the western Indians. 
 2* 
 
18 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 His youthful days return anew, 
 His visions and possessions, too ; 
 Tells what he was and might have been 
 Had not that nonplus come between 
 Himself and the desired thing, 
 And made a subject of a king. 
 
 Sweet vision of domestic bliss ! 
 Hath eye seen aught surpassing this ? 
 Could bard or painter who would dress 
 A scene of human happiness, 
 'Mongst the few patterns of the kind 
 Exemplar more befitting find ? 
 
 Vision of Peace ! beneath the tree 
 And palmy boughs of Liberty. 
 How well these social scenes contrast 
 With days of wo and peril past ! 
 Befitting time — Thanksgiving Eve — 
 A patriot's lessons to receive 1 
 
 The grandame speaks : her numbers tell 
 The memories which her bosom swell ; 
 She paints afresh days long agone 
 When wives were left with firesides lone. 
 To hear the booming battle-gun 
 And think of husband or of son ; 
 And wait, with longing and with fear^ 
 Of victory or defeat to hear ; 
 Nerving their hearts to learn that they 
 Were mourners from that woful day. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 19 
 
 The grandsire is discoursing, too ; 
 Himself one of the lingering few 
 Like land-marks showing, when we gaze 
 On revolutionary days. 
 A martial ardor fills his eye 
 When pointing back to times gone by ; 
 For though grey-headed, just, and good, 
 His veins are filled with ' soger' blood : — 
 He counts his father's cuts and scars 
 Received in old colonial wars ; 
 And hums the air some soldier made 
 When Wolfe on glory's bier was laid. 
 The verse uncouth, and faulty rhyme 
 Blend with an old heroic chime. 
 His father loved it for the sake 
 Of memories it was wont to wake. 
 And aye would sing it when he told 
 Of AYolfe so brave and Montcalm bold. 
 
 He lights his pipe ; and next proceeds 
 With revolutionary deeds ; 
 Which, like the man in Trojan cause, 
 ' He saw, and part of which he was.* 
 Tells many facts with interest rife 
 Connected with that noted strife 
 Ne'er honored with historic pen ; 
 Names dates, and places, arms and men ; 
 Tells of his feelings when his gun 
 He levelled first at Bennington, 
 And felt upon his cheek the breath 
 Of swift-winged messenger of death ; 
 
20 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 With feeling lingers for a time 
 On Andre's fate, and Arnold's crime ; 
 And dwells upon the soldier's woes 
 At Valley Forge, midst winter's snows. 
 
 List to the veteran ! he extends 
 A benediction to his friends : — 
 Remember, next to Heaven's Throne, 
 Your country claims you as her own. 
 To one is adoration due ; 
 The other asks devotion true. 
 Thanks to the God of Battles ! now 
 Before no other king ye bow ; 
 No other king you'll have if ye 
 Do not abuse your liberty. 
 Nor lose in party's bitter waves 
 Your fathers' altar, and their graves. 
 New England points her every son 
 To Bunker's height and towering stone : 
 Beneath is patriotic dust ; 
 Above the changeless God, and just ; 
 And bids his aspiration be, 
 * God and my country, now and aye !' 
 
 Unheeded, thus the moments fly ; 
 And every hour that dances by 
 
 Prolongs the social scene ; 
 As when we read, and love to learn, 
 Each page we scan, each leaf we turn, 
 
 A new delight we glean. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 21 
 
 The king in state upon his throne 
 May wish the sun in heaven gone, 
 
 May curse the wakeful moon ; 
 Compared with him, how blest are they 
 To whom Time's flitting pinions play 
 
 A sweetly moving tune ! 
 
 Now goes around the farmer's cheer, 
 Fresh from the garner of the year : — 
 Autumnal fruits of choicest savor, 
 The old brown mug of pleasant flavor ; 
 
 And, lo ! the Muse awakes ! 
 Oh ! reader, not the classic jade 
 Who serves her time, and does by trade 
 
 What nature better makes. 
 
 As when, in olden time, at feasts 
 Where lords were hosts, and knights were guests, 
 Returning from the boisterous chase. 
 Or battle's grim and gory place. 
 
 Around the board they drew ; 
 Then while the banquet scene inspired, 
 And every loyal heart was fired 
 
 Its prowess to renew ; 
 The bard was summoned, to prolong 
 The glories of the day, in song. 
 
 And of its hero tell ; 
 And loud the plaudits, as he sung, 
 Among the midnight echoes rung, 
 
 And high his sounding shell. 
 
22 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 So now around our humbler board, 
 Altho' no knight, or lofty lord, 
 
 Or laurel'd bard are seen ; 
 Yet there are hearts as brave and true 
 As e'er from titled scions grew, — 
 
 By nature nobler, e'en. 
 
 And one who learned his harp to string 
 In the green fields, in time of spring, 
 When music from the tuneful bough 
 Beguiled his labors at the plough ; 
 Who learned to strike a rural key. 
 When sweetly o'er the faded lea 
 The Autumn wind breathed slow and clear 
 Its requiem for the dying year, — 
 Essays a song ; attention give 
 And hear the story of the eve : 
 
 LEGEND OF THE ISLE.* 
 
 Is there a man who loves a marvelous tale — 
 
 Some dreamy legend of enchanted lands, 
 As loves old Tantivy October ale. 
 
 Or I our river and its silvery sands ? 
 Lend such attention as that tale demands. 
 
 The efforts of the muse less notice claim ; 
 The faltering chords bespeak her awkward hands. 
 
 Wrapped in her homely robe, with progress lame, 
 She slowly takes the path which others run to fame. 
 
 * See Note A. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 23 
 
 Let learned muses wander, for a theme, 
 
 In Orient lands and fields of classic lore ; 
 Mine draws her subject from her native stream, 
 
 And strikes her harp upon its pleasant shore. 
 In artful plumage neither will she soar 
 
 To taste the spring which Helicon distils ; 
 Dearer to her the vine-clad cottage door. 
 
 Whose threshold-seat the evening minstrel fills. 
 And hears his echoed strains among the neighboring hills. 
 
 And thou, Connecticut, whose waters first 
 
 Baptised thy minstrel a New England born ! 
 Purest of streams ! yea, pure as those that burst 
 
 From the sweet well-springs of the realms of morn 
 And fab'lous Fancy's flowery meads adorn. 
 
 I think on those, when musing o'er thy flow. 
 Who wrought in boyhood in thy fields of corn ; 
 
 Some, distant far, pursuing Fortune go ; 
 Some, in a sailor's grave, sleep Ocean's waves below. 
 
 Say, has the rover from thy shores so free 
 
 Found realms thine own in beauty to outvie ? 
 Did not thy dying ' wanderer of the sea,' 
 
 He Avho with noble firmness e'en could die, 
 Recall thy scenes with memory's vivid eye, 
 
 And sigh to think he'd view them never more ! 
 Roll seaward, waters, where his ashes lie 
 
 Whose memory consecrates for me thy shore ; 
 And blend your lays with mine your noblest to deplore !* 
 
 * See Note B. 
 
24 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 Few but have heard of famous Captain Kidd, 
 
 He who for plunder sailed upon the sea ; 
 Of all the many wicked acts he did, 
 
 The which to tell were ill-befitting me ; 
 And how, at last, he ' hanged upon a tree,' 
 
 When Justice overtook him in his crimes ; 
 And in a song gained immortality ; — 
 
 His name I mention in my marvelous rhymes ; 
 I sing of ancient men, a tale of olden times. 
 
 II. 
 
 Go view the scene of action whence I draw 
 
 The theme which constitutes my faithful lay ; 
 Near where a prophet hard a vision saw. 
 
 And sang about it in a by-gone day, 
 An Island rises in the stream midway ; — 
 
 A lonely isle, where spirits of the drowned, 
 Forgetful of their homes, may seem to stray, 
 
 Wet from the chiming waves, whose drowsy sound 
 Plays dirges round the shores of their enchanted ground. 
 
 III. 
 Oft, when a boy, by Fancy led to stray 
 
 Alone along the river's leafy shore. 
 What time the musk-rat left his haunts to play, 
 
 And all the labors of the day were o'er, 
 How loved I on the darkening scene to pore ! 
 
 How sweet on yonder isle was closing day, 
 Among the noble elms I see no more ! 
 
 Stern maledictions choke my pensive lay : — 
 Frost nip the villain hands that cut those elms away ! 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 25 
 
 IV. 
 
 To yonder isle, for years it was believed, 
 
 Kidd once ascended with his bandits bold, 
 And, glutted with the spoils they had achieved, 
 
 They buried there a chest containing gold ; 
 And by tradition, indistinct, 't was told • 
 
 How on that chest a chosen brave they slew 
 To guard the treasures in their iron fold. 
 
 From fiction it may be, the story grew 
 And what remains to sing I do not vouch is true. 
 
 V. 
 
 Upon our shores, far back in other years. 
 
 There lived a simple-minded, worthy soul ; 
 His life a constant round of hopes and fears, 
 
 As one alternate on the other stole ; 
 He might have ' drowned his sorrows in the bowl ;' 
 
 His hopes, poor man ! he might have cherished there ; 
 But how to reach bright Zion's blessed goal, 
 
 Was, after all, 'twas thought, his chiefest care; 
 And now of heaven's joys no doubt he has his share. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A thin, spare man he was, of anxious look, 
 
 Of stooping figure, and of middling size ; 
 A strict old-fashioned reader of the Book, 
 
 Yet one not blessed with unbeclouded eyes ; 
 The one dim talent it was his to prize ; — 
 
 Believer he in ' signs,' in lucky stars ; 
 Was always clad in antiquated guise ; 
 
 Lacked both the courage and the force of Mars ; 
 And always came off vanquished in domestic jars. 
 3 
 
26 THE HAKP AND PLOW. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Such was the man the hero of our song ; 
 
 A superstitious being, fond of talk, 
 Who would beguile the snowy evenings long 
 
 With deeds of those who forth ' at midnight walk 
 To bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk ;' 
 
 His own experience, too, he'd linger o'er, — 
 How witches used his choicest plans to balk. 
 
 To blast his crops, and haunt his barns before 
 He nailed the horse-shoe fast above the folding door. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 One night this dreamer on his pallet lay ; 
 
 His limbs were weary but he could not sleep ; 
 He pondered o'er the hardships of the day, 
 
 How very sore it was to stoop and reap 
 When burning suns slow thro' the heavens creep ; 
 
 To glean a living with unceasing toil, 
 While favored ones their slavish minions keep 
 
 To till for them the fructifying soil ;-— 
 Till with ungenerous rage our hero's blood did boil. 
 
 IX. 
 
 0, why should Fortune on a few bestow 
 
 Her shining' treasures, with a lavish hand ? 
 Fill up their coffers till they overflow, 
 
 And turn to gold for thsm the very sand ; 
 And crown their worthless names with titles grand ? 
 
 While the poor man, to ceaseless sorrow born, 
 Sees Ruin's taloned Yv'helps around him stand. 
 
 Himself defenceless in their midst, forlorn, 
 Moaning a prayer for pity, but exciting scorn. 
 
THANKSGIVmG EVE. 27 
 
 X. 
 
 0, is there not for me some gift in store 
 
 Shall heap with yellow gold my empty board ! 
 How would my heart the giver good adore ! — 
 
 (Rather than mammon may he be the Lord !) — 
 As never yet a being was adored. 
 
 How often, then, for charitable deed, 
 Should beggars' blessings on my head be poured ! 
 
 The child of Want should on my bounty feed, 
 And humble worth no more a generous patron need. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The purse-proud fool, who scarcely heeds me now, 
 
 Should wither at my look of cold disdain ; 
 Respectful friends should in my presence bow. 
 
 And slaves be proud to wear their master's chain — 
 He who could make them, and unmake again ; 
 
 A lordly pile should fill the wishful eye 
 Where now a cottage peeps above the plain, 
 
 And stranger passengers, when going by, 
 Should stop and ask his name, who built yon mansion high. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Such were the thoughts that filled our hero's head, 
 
 As night apace on circling moments flew ; 
 No wonder, then, that sleep his pillow fled, 
 
 Since such bright visions for the while seem true. 
 But, oh ! they wither faster than they grew ! 
 
 Hard 'tis for man his destined lot to shun. 
 To leave the road that he must stumble through ; 
 
 Youth is the rising, age the setting sun — 
 The evening often closes as the morn begun. 
 
28 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Sudden a fancy fired the schemer's brain, 
 
 Bright, e'en at first, and growing still more fair ; 
 He felt at once a respite from his pain, 
 
 And gave a free discharge to every care 
 Save the bright castle building in the air. 
 
 His sanguine ravings waked his ancient bride 
 Who heard the oath that he unconscious sware, 
 
 And deemed her good man did the night-mare ride 
 Through some infernal place, where demons foul abide. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Morn rose at last above the eastern chain 
 
 Of hills, that mark the river's winding way ; 
 Connecticut, that stole beneath the plain, 
 
 Gave to the air her misty mantle grey ; 
 And bared her silver bosom to the day. 
 
 Up sprang the black bird from her dewy nest 
 And warbled sweet aloft her early lay ; 
 
 While hark'ning puss his playful mate caress'd. 
 And Summer smiled around, in ail her verdure dress'd. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Now in these days, upon the neighboring shore, 
 
 There lived a man of whom strange things were told ; 
 A wizzard, at the least, if nothing more. 
 
 Who could the darkest mystery unfold. 
 And for whose soul the de'il a writ did hold ; 
 
 For thus did gossips of the day declare : — 
 He for the subtle art the same had sold ; 
 
 And when he died, the Regent of the Air 
 Would come to claim his own, and take him, ^ hide and hair.' 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 29 
 
 XVI. 
 
 If sheep were missing from their wonted fold, 
 
 Or roosts were plundered, would the loser go 
 And see the conjuror, he might be told 
 
 About his loss, and how effected, too, 
 Before himself had said that it was so ! 
 
 'T is true, some hinted it was plain to see 
 Why the old man should all about it know ; 
 
 But others thought it still a mystery, 
 For fortunes, too, he told, and like strange things did he. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Scarce had the thirsty sunbeams drank the dew, 
 
 Save where it lay beneath some leafy screen, 
 When, to consult the conjuror, Ballou, 
 
 Our hero issuing on his way was seen, 
 With bold determination in his mien. 
 
 He with his shadow seemed to run a race ; 
 (And what a shadow was the goal, I ween !) 
 
 Hope lit the rigid features of his face. 
 And oft his gesturing arm bespoke the mental chase. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 When doting man is led by meteor whim. 
 
 What bright successes on his thoughts await ! 
 He deems the world was made alone for him, 
 
 And he the spared favorite of fate, 
 Whom Heaven journals ' good,' and Nature, ' great.' 
 
 So Jack, that bears the phosphorescent fire, 
 Deludes at night the poor inebriate ; 
 
 He sees at last the faithless lamp expire, 
 And bides a wretched time in fathoming the mire, 
 
 3* 
 
30 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 At length upon a hermifc-cottago door, 
 
 The good man did the scripture promise test ; 
 Cold perspiration ran from every pore, 
 
 And fear, with hope alternate, filled his breast, 
 As with a trembling hand the latch he press'd : 
 
 Slowly the door reluctantly gave way 
 To usher in the dark magician's guest ; 
 
 But, standing like a frighted deer, at bay, 
 He wist not how to act, and knew not what to say. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The light dira-strugghng thro' the dingy panes. 
 
 Gave to the smoky walls a twilight hue ; 
 A wind-harp sang in melancholy strains 
 
 Whene'er without the passing zephyr blew 
 And softly stole the casement crevice through. 
 
 Beneath the window's dungeon-colored ray 
 A dark, unvarnished board was spread to view ; 
 
 Death's head and cross-bones in its centre lay, 
 Which, when our hero saw, he wished himself away. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Beside the board, in antiquated chair, 
 
 The conjuror was seated at his trade. 
 He turned him round, and with a fixed stare. 
 
 From head to foot his speechless guest surveyed. 
 Till a grim smile upon his features played ; 
 
 Then ope'd a volume huge of mystic lore. 
 Whose yellow pages Faustus might have made ; 
 
 And while he conned his uncouth lesson o'er, 
 The stranger heard a tongue he never heard before. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 31 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Then lifting up his eyes from off the book 
 
 He on his guest a look of science threw : — 
 ' He that would fish must firstly bait the hook ; — 
 
 No fishes nibble here until you do.' 
 Our hero took the hint, and forthwith drew 
 
 From out his fob the heart-case that he tanned, 
 When, years agone, a fatted ox he slew ; 
 
 Its contents o'er with wishful eyes he scann'd. 
 And dropped a part thereof into the wizzard's hand. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Then with the air of one who breathless all 
 
 Awaits the footsteps of the fated deer. 
 He leaned for succor on the friendly wall 
 
 And listened to the language of the seer : — 
 ' Adversity's cold winds have blown you here I 
 
 So drifts a helmless hulk upon the seas ; 
 But let the thought your drooping spirits cheer, 
 
 The very wind that does the beggar freeze 
 Wafts others gaily on to honor and to ease.' 
 
 XXiV. 
 ' Then let it blow !' exclaimed our doting man, 
 
 Whose tongue, restrained, had burst aloose at last ; 
 ' I'll weather well the tempest if I can, 
 
 Whoever else may founder in the blast. 
 My colors, see, they're nailed upon the mast ! 
 
 The pirate's crimson stain is on their fold ; 
 Come, look with wizzard ken into the past. 
 
 For by your subtle arts I would be told 
 Where bloody Kidd concealed that chest^of glittering gold. 
 
32 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The conjuror took his hazel wand in hand, 
 
 And figured for a while upon the floor ; 
 Anon his horoscope and globe he scann'd, 
 
 Then fell to muttering his fancies o'er : — 
 * Bootes seems begrimmed with human gore, 
 
 And fiery Mars with tenfold lustre burns ! 
 Dire meteors fly, and fearful brilliance pour ; 
 
 Saturn, all greedy, for his children yearns ; 
 And Juno to the earth her shapeless Vulcan spurns !' 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Meanwhile, to every point from east to west 
 
 His wand did like magnetic needle veer ; 
 At length it halted, trembling to a rest. — 
 
 ' Bellum liorrlfficmendum P cried the seer, 
 ' The charmed treasure which you seek is near ! 
 
 Why nods to me the river-god his head ? 
 Ah ! cujus caput ? — yes, I see it clear ! — 
 
 Hard by the spot where you were born and bred, 
 The pirate's booty lies within its island bed.'' 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 ' Does it ? indeed 1' again our hero spake. 
 
 ' Somehow I must have dreamed as much before ; 
 But, tell me, wondrous man, without mistake. 
 
 The how, and when, I may obtain the ore ; — 
 Here, take my meagre purse ! — I would 't were more.' 
 
 (0, bright anticipation ! in thy sun 
 How melts the heart long frozen to the core ! 
 
 How freely forth the stingy pennies run 
 When dollars are at stake, and guineas may be won !) 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 33 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 So, "while he spoke, the wizzard's face grew black, 
 
 And scowling o'er his book ■with earnest gaze, 
 He looked like hunter searching out the track, 
 
 \Yhere doubtful signs his straining ejes amaze ; 
 Or, like a "wrecker, peering thro' the haze, 
 
 When on the deep he hears the drowning cry ; — 
 He scann'd the changing moon, her ancient ^Yays, 
 
 The pictured stars he read "with curious eye ; 
 Then to his guest he spoke, and thus his sage reply : — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 * There is a charm, which I can scarce dispel, 
 
 That holds the treasures which you would obtain ; 
 But harken to perform what I shall tell, 
 
 And, ten to one, you will not hear in vain ; 
 Depart therefrom, yon '11 sing another strain ! — 
 
 The fifteenth night, that from her sky serene, 
 September's moon shines on the harvest plain, 
 
 Rise from your bed the midnight hours betv/een, 
 And seek the island shore all noiseless and unseen. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 ' Upon its southern point there grows an elm — 
 
 It's braved the floods and storm.s for many a year — 
 Which pilots recognize "with starboard helm 
 
 When up the stream their freighted barks they steer. 
 The midnight moon will shine upon it clear ; 
 
 Twelve paces from its base, by measure made, 
 The shadow of its forks will plain appear ; 
 
 Upon that spot descend with bar and spade, 
 For bloody Robert's wealth is underneath you laid. 
 
84 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 ' Most horrid sounds and sights you'll hear and see, 
 
 Which might the lion-hearted terrify, 
 But on your part let perfect silence be ; 
 
 All unconcerned your labors earnest ply, 
 Whatever fills your ear, or meets your eye ; 
 
 The golden treasures are by silence won ; 
 And should you speak, you'll know the reason why. 
 
 Keep all a secret — tell it unto none ; 
 And now depart from hence, and see that all is done.' 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 With lightsome heart our hero left the spot 
 
 Wkere he such precious knowledge had obtained ; 
 The birds sang sweetly, but he heard them not ; 
 
 From viewing Nature's charms his eyes refrained, 
 He saw them not — for all his thoughts were chained 
 
 Upon one mental and enchanting vievf ; 
 In wild anticipation he had gained 
 
 More than was buried by the plundering crew, 
 And treasure even more than far-famed Croesus knew. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 At length the hopeful journey and the day, 
 
 With hira alike were tending to a close ; 
 But still from home content a while to stay. 
 
 Upon a neighbor hill a seat he chose. 
 That watched above the sleeping vale's repose. 
 
 Like molten silver flowed the river there ; 
 That blessed island from its bosom rose, 
 
 Where he was soon the midnight feat to dare, 
 And free his heart and hands of all their cankering care. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 35 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 His pipe he lit. The vapor upward curled, 
 
 And, wreathing, wrought round his bewildered head ; 
 Its fragrance stole his senses from the world, 
 
 Save one fond thought by recollection led 
 To watch the treasures in their ' island bed,' 
 
 And half invoke a blessing on the seer ; 
 Till in his dreamy trance he fancied 
 
 The chnk of dollars in his ready ear, 
 And woke enraged to find his nibbling sheep were near. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Shall I digress to sing thee, Indian weed ! 
 
 And praise thy virtues, slandered tho' they be ? 
 The muse to thee before has blown her reed. 
 
 As many who have heard will witness me ; 
 But thou art welcome to her minstrelsy ! 
 
 For she, who now about the smoker sings, 
 At times, without thine aid, how dull is she ! 
 
 But let thine incense rise ! — on glancing wings 
 Like birds from spray to spray, from thought to thought 
 she springs. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Upon the hills — liack in oblivious year — 
 
 That o'er the Indian Susquehannah frown. 
 While starving hunters cooked a slaughtered deer 
 
 A gracious spirit came from heaven down, 
 And first thy seed from her fair hands was sown. 
 
 'T was to reward them for a pious feat 
 She gave their dutet)us hearts this kindly cheer ; 
 
 For, deeming tha slio smelled their savory meat 
 They, fasting, offered her the choicest bits to eat. 
 
36 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 On pious deeds a blessing is bestowed. 
 
 Lo ! when the grateful goddess left the place 
 A new-called herb earth's teeming bosom showed — 
 
 Great chief of all the vegetable race ! 
 This, for thy origin, the Indians trace. 
 
 Sprung from such wondrous source, indeed, thou art ! 
 For what can sooner smooth the rigid face 
 
 Or e'en than sleep more pleasant dreams impart. 
 Or better lift the while its burden from the heart ? 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 But to our tale again. Day after day 
 
 The sun slow dragged his intervening rounds. 
 Meantime our hero's farm neglected lay ; 
 
 Rank weeds deformed his once well-tended grounds ; 
 His fences fell, his cattle leaped their bounds ; 
 
 Their master, vexed with more important care, 
 And wholly occupied with sights and sounds^ 
 
 Would frequent to the river-shore repair 
 To see if all was right, and no molester there. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 His wife oft chid him at this timely rate : — 
 
 ' My dear ! what, in the name of common sense, 
 Has taken such a hold on you, of late ? 
 
 What plea have you to oS'er in defence 
 Of all your present sloth and impotence ? 
 
 Rouse up, good man ! bestir your lazy feet. 
 Or ruin sure will be the consequence ; 
 
 Unless you labor what have we to eat ? 
 For scarcely when we work the year's two ends will meet.' 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 37 
 
 XL. 
 
 ' 'Tis true good wife, \ve're poor,' he would reply ; 
 
 ' Together we in poverty were wed ; 
 But let us never raise a murmuring cry 
 
 To Him who gives to us our daily bread ; 
 Besides, somewhere I've either heard or read 
 
 ' Afflictions oft are blessings in disguise ;' 
 I doubt not, then, but we shall still be fed ; 
 
 Perhaps e'en at our door some blessing lies, 
 For One who cares for us far more than man is wise.* 
 
 XLI. 
 
 How easily may some contentment preach, 
 
 When secret hopes meanwhile inspire their tongue ! 
 For even while the good man made this speech 
 
 A ragged urchin on his garments hung ; 
 And, as aside its sunburnt locks he flung. 
 
 My poor, unconscious, ragged boy, thought he, 
 How oft in care for thee my heart's been wrung ! 
 
 But Fortune smiles ; — tomorrow thou may'st be 
 Heir to such splendid wealth that kings might envy thee. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 That very night the good man left his bed, 
 
 And putting on the garments that he wore, 
 Deemed, while the silence answered not his tread, 
 
 He for the last time shut a poor man's door. 
 Then silently he sought the river shore. 
 
 His stealthy footsteps making rapid stride ; 
 Besides the spade and iron bar he bore, 
 
 ' The big ha' bible, ance his father's pride,' 
 He hugged beneath his arm against his beating side. 
 
 4 
 
38 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 XLin. 
 
 Still was the hour, and sweet the midnight scene ; 
 
 The moon that in the cloudless heavens shone 
 Sprinkled with pearls the dewy banks of green 
 
 As thick as grain by generous sower sown. 
 No sound was heard except the wavelet's moan, — 
 
 All else the dreadful silence of the grave, 
 Save when the otter, from his covert lone, 
 
 Sought in the stream his furry skin to lave. 
 And with a sportive plunge awoke the dimpling wave. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 But he of whom I sing was soon afloat. 
 
 Viewing these glories with a heedless eye ; 
 Stern, silent spectres, watching for his boat. 
 
 His fancy on the island shore could spy. 
 Which seemed to menace him from drawing nigh. 
 
 Poor man ! how much he felt no mortal knows ; 
 Despite his hopes and expectations high. 
 
 He felt like wretch who to his exit goes, [shows. 
 When first through glittering files, the waiting scaffold 
 
 XLV. 
 
 But screwing up his courage to the test. 
 
 He on the haunted shore a landing made ; 
 And with a painful panic in his breast 
 
 The seer's instructions, one by one, obeyed : — ■ 
 Twelve paces from the elm, by measure laid. 
 
 He found all as the conjuror had told ; 
 Then soon the turf was broken by his spade. 
 
 And anxiously he raised the fragrant mould. 
 While down his palid cheeks the perspiration rolled. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 39 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 A gnarled root impeded his descent, 
 
 And seizing hold the same, in act to draw, 
 0, what a groan the horrid silence rent ! 
 
 You might have heard his heart that beat in awe ! 
 It seemed a dead man's arm, worm-gnawed and raw, 
 
 And from it gushed a stream of stagnant gore ! 
 But, shutting hard his eyes on what they saw, 
 
 He mentally a prayer repeated o'er. 
 Then with renewed strength he fell to digging more. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 Anon came slowly moving up the flood 
 
 A phantom boat, and near the island drew ; 
 The helmsman's headless trunk was spouting blood ! 
 
 Like murderous demons looked the spectral crew, 
 As if intent some fearful deed to do ! 
 
 The poor man's courage fled before the sight ; — 
 Upon his quaking knees himself he threw 
 
 And clasped the blessed volume in affright ; 
 Nor did he quit his hold till all again was right. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But how should he obtain the ' root of evil' ? 
 
 And wherewithal should he o'ercome his fears ? 
 We read ' wi' usqueba' we'll face the devil,' — 
 
 Our man resolved to test its virtues here. 
 For who but JVick himself, might next appear ! 
 
 He raised the potion to his lips, and thought — 
 'T was not, indeed, forbidden by the seer ; 
 
 Enough thereof to drown bis fears he sought. 
 Then moistening his palms, he like a Trojan wrought. 
 
40 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And now, a full half hour he wrought m peace, 
 
 With little to molest or make afraid ; 
 And soon he looked to see his labors cease, 
 
 For deep and wide was the descent he made. 
 Alternately he plied the bar and spade ; 
 
 Nor did he once a timely thought bestow 
 Upon the ponderous transfer, without aid. 
 
 Full oft in lueighty matters is it so ; — 
 A sequel often shows we've much to learn and know. 
 
 L. 
 
 Sudden, loud yells terrific rent the air ! 
 
 Horror possessed the poor man's soul anew ; 
 For, borne against the tide, a man-of-war 
 
 Around the bend below, came full in view 
 With bellying sails, tho' scarce a zephyr blew ; 
 
 The wail of wo, of agony the scream, 
 Mixed with fierce yells, and imprecations, too, 
 
 Rose from her gloomy decks ; and it would seem 
 As if the fiends of hell were sailing on the stream. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The digger leaned upon his spade amazed. 
 
 And pressed his hand upon his laboring brain ; 
 All speechless on the mystery he gazed. 
 
 Then rubbed his gloating eyes, and looked again, 
 The certainty thereof to ascertain ; 
 
 It melted into moonlight — it was gone ! 
 And, slowly as it passed, a solemn strain 
 
 Yet, sweet as those by airy pipers blown. 
 Alarmed him with the wild enchantment of its tone. 
 
THANKSGIVING EVE. 41 
 
 LII. 
 
 He raised his bar on high, with reckless hand, 
 
 And plunged it down, scarce knowing what he did ; 
 It penetrated deep the moistened sand, 
 
 And rang beneath upon the ponderous lid, 
 And clinked the golden bars of Robert Kidd ! 
 
 ' By heavens ! 'tis here !' the joyful digger cried ; 
 * ! did I speak ?' — (as recollection chid) — 
 
 While, with a sound like Turner's thundering tide, 
 Forever from the spot the charmed chest did glide ! 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Star of the morn ! whose dull, inconstant gleam 
 
 Is fading at the opening gates of day, 
 How fit an emblem is thy waning beam 
 
 Of hopes, once bright as was thy rising ray, 
 Now gone, like thee dissolved in light away ! 
 
 Our air-built halls — how bright, yet how untrue ! 
 Like the mirage, that with its fair display, 
 
 Oft landsmen in the cloud of ocean view, 
 Which, while thereon they gaze, fades into heaven's blue ! 
 
 The tale is told ; and Lima's height 
 Proclaims the lengthened march of night. 
 Already locked in sleep's embrace. 
 The ' sanguine lad' is on the chase ; 
 The ' pauvre neighbor' rubs his eyes. 
 And ventures sundry comments wise 
 
 4* 
 
42 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Based here and there upon a word 
 Bj dint of winking he has heard. 
 The grandsire lights his pipe anew, 
 And calls the story very true, 
 For he had heard it years before, 
 Told by the digger, o'er and o'er. 
 The grand dame, hitching in her chair, 
 To give herself a wakeful air, 
 Yawns forth the question, — ' let us see ! 
 He lost the money did'nt he V 
 
 Renewed once more the burning pile ; 
 And social talk is brisk the while. 
 A retrospect of life is made. 
 And future plans are careful laid. 
 Again is passed around the treat, 
 And tho' not hungry, you must eat, 
 Nor make refusal of the cheer — 
 THANKSGivma comes but once a year 1 
 The watch-dogs from their kennel rouse 
 And think 't is morning in the house ; 
 And, whining at the kitchen door, 
 Would greet their master as before. 
 
 In order next the hymn is raised ; 
 Their Father and their God is praised. 
 The key is struck, and joined to sing, 
 Sweet sounds the viol's tuneful string ; 
 And while the notes in concord blend. 
 Old Hundred's well known strains ascend 
 
THANKSeiVING EVE. 4?, 
 
 T H E H Y M N . 
 
 Father of all I to Thee we raise 
 The feeble tribute of our praise ; 
 0, turn to us a wilHng ear, 
 And in Thy glorious heaven hear ! 
 
 The ' times and seasons,' in Thine hand, 
 With plenteous gladness fill the land ; 
 And rolling years, as fast they move, 
 Proclaim Thy goodness, power, and love. 
 
 The blades of spring, the leaves of June, 
 The fostering sun, and ripening moon, 
 The searing frost, the mantling snow, 
 Thy wondrous skill and wisdom show. 
 
 Now, in the garner of the year, 
 
 Our hearts are warmed with bounteous cheer ;" 
 
 And here, beside our festal board. 
 
 Be Thou, the Giver good, adored. 
 
 We thank Thee for a home, and friends, 
 Eor light and life Thy mercy lends ; 
 For rulers from oppression free ; 
 For this, the land of Liberty ! 
 
 Thou wert our fathers' God, and Thou 
 The only one to whom we bow ; 
 Thus, to our children ever be, 
 The same, and they the same to Thee. 
 
44 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 0, may New-England ever share 
 Thy smiling love, Thy guardian care ! 
 Be Thou her guard, Eternal One, 
 While mountains stand, and rivers run. 
 
 The moon goes down ; the fire burns low ; 
 The ancient clock seems ticking slow, 
 And feebly, with its drowsy powers. 
 Is hammering out the morning hours. 
 
 The grandsire, with complacent look, 
 Bids some one hand the blessed Book. 
 Its precious page aloud he reads, 
 Then, kneeling, in devotion leads ; 
 Gives thanks that in communion sweet 
 They've been permitted thus to meet ; 
 And in befitting language prays. 
 That when on earth shall end their days, 
 To them may their Thanksgiving prove 
 Eternal, in the realms above. 
 
NOTES 
 
 Note A. — There is an island in the Connecticut river, opposite the 
 village of Gill, Mass., of some magnitude, known as '' Kidd's Island."' 
 Its name originated in a tradition that Kidd, the noted pirate, once 
 buried thereon a portion of his ill-gotten booty ; and this tradition is 
 founded upon the death-bed confession of the pirate's African cook, 
 v\'ho stated", among other things, that a part of the crew once ascended 
 the Connecticut a good distance in boats, and upon an island above 
 the " great falls" — (Turner's Falls ?) — deposited an iron chest filled 
 with gold and other indestructable precious spoils. Moreover, that 
 after depositing the chest in the earth the crew cast lots among them- 
 selves, and the one upon whom the lot fell was slain upon the chest 
 and his body buried with it. This bloody act was supposed to create 
 a charm about the repose of the treasures ; and thus guard it from 
 the avaricious attempts of future money-diggers. — However true the 
 tradition maybe, it matters not; but certain it is that a believer in 
 the buried plunder, many years since, after due consultation with a 
 noted 'conjuror,' made actual attempt to obtain the treasures, isot- 
 withstanding his sanguine hopes of success in the undertaking, — a 
 naturally superstitious turn of mind, the midnight hour, the loneli- 
 ness of the scene, and, above all, the awful chann which was sup- 
 posed to enwrap the iron chest, completely bewildered the brain of the 
 digger ; and to the day of his death he affirmed the truth of the mys- 
 terious and awful things said to have been witnessed by him while 
 engaged in the unholy attempt ; and believed that his bar actually 
 struck upon the lid of the chest ; and that had he not spoken in an un- 
 guarded moment, he should have rejoiced in the possession ol the un- 
 told treasures. 
 
 The remains of the midnight excavation are still to be seen by any 
 one who may visit the isle. 
 
46 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Note B. — The valley of the Connecticut has furnished an unusual 
 number of seamen both for the commercial marine, and the naval 
 service of the United States. Many of these, early cotemporaries of 
 the writer, are '^ in the deep bosom of the ocean buried." Particular 
 allusion is had in this connection to the death at sea of Surgeon Wil- 
 liam Pitt Canning^ of the United States Navy, who fell a victim to 
 the scourge of the tropics and devotion to his duty, on the awfully 
 memorable passage of the sloop-of-war Vandalia, from Port-au-Prince 
 to Norfolk, Va., April 7, 1845.--See lines entitled ''My Brother's 
 Ocean Grave." 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 
 
 JANUARY. 
 
 Old Time, the tireless, in his book 
 
 Has tiirnecl a leaf anew. 
 And bent thereon his solemn look 
 
 To make a record true. 
 As fast successive years are told. 
 Do we grow wise as we grow old ? 
 Is wisdom to the man as coy 
 As when he was a little boy ? 
 Shall he no godlike lesson learn, 
 While, wheeling on, the planets burn, 
 And constant, in their wondrous play, 
 Light for his thoughts a loftier way ? 
 
 The woodman in some sheltering nook, 
 
 When haply Phoebus shines, 
 Hears far o'erhead the solemn airs 
 
 Among the shiv^ering pines. 
 There seated, thoughtful and alone, 
 
 He takes his frugal meal. 
 And feels a sympathizing gloom 
 
 Upon his spirits steal ; 
 
48 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 His dog, from many a fruitless search, 
 Coraes to bis master there, 
 
 And seems his gloomy thoughts to feel, 
 And would his dinner share. 
 
 From mossy trunks, with nervous arm, 
 
 He rears the ponderous load. 
 And slowly seeks his distant home 
 
 Along the dreary road. 
 The rising storm, from regions bleak, 
 
 May howl o'er him in wrath, 
 The furious squall and eddying drift 
 
 May blind the sledder's path ; 
 Still on he cheers his patient team, 
 
 He whistles, shouts, and sings ; 
 He 's thinking of the pleasure that 
 
 The fireside circle brings. 
 
 At length, storm-beaten, to his door 
 
 His weary cattle come ; 
 His children peer the windows through, 
 
 And shout a welcome home ; 
 Gone are the labors of the day, 
 
 The beatings of the storm ; 
 His features soften to a smile, 
 
 Beside his hearth-stone warm. 
 
 A little child — 'her father's pet — 
 
 Is seated on his knee, 
 And hears about the squirrel's nest 
 
 Snug in the hollow tree ; 
 
LAYS OP A TWELVEMONTH. 49 
 
 The winter-berries in his vest 
 
 She seeks, and calls them good ; 
 The woodman thought about his child 
 
 When in the lonely wood. 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 0, Winter ! unto those who feel 
 No creature-comfort unsupplied, 
 Whose garners swell with precious fruits 
 
 Of acres stretching far and wide ; 
 Whose vestments warm, and dwellings grand, 
 Thy fiercest howling blast withstand, — 
 
 Thy presence pleasure brings ; 
 The ride, the dance, the gay soiree, 
 The fireside circle's bright display 
 
 O'er joyless Nature flings 
 A veil, to hide her visage pale. 
 To stifle Want's heart-moving tale 
 
 Uprising from thy snows. 
 And though around the pampered form 
 Is girt the cloak of comfort warm, 
 
 The heart within, God knows, 
 Is cold and deaf; — it has no ear 
 The plaint of misery to hear — 
 
 A supplicated boon ; 
 'T is cold with selfishness, as now 
 Upon Monadnock's glittering brow 
 
 The lidit of winter's moon ! 
 
50 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Think, favored ones, within the streets 
 
 So broad, where Plenty Pleasure meets,- 
 
 Think of the bye and lonely roads 
 
 That lead to Misery's abodes ! 
 
 The hut, half-buried in the snow ; 
 
 The stolen fuel, burning low, 
 
 O'er which, in fear, some squalid form 
 
 Is crouched, its shivering self to warm ; 
 
 And mopes, and muses, starts and stares, 
 
 Raves of its woes, and plots, and swears ! 
 
 Think of the victim you might save 
 
 From prison glooms, from felon's grave ; 
 
 And lead, with timely aid bestowed. 
 
 On Virtue's heaven-seeking road. 
 
 Pray, favored ones, within whose door 
 
 The fierce temptations of the poor. 
 
 Barred out by Plenty, never come 
 
 Like fiends to desolate your home — 
 
 Pray, in the heart of winter-time. 
 
 For the poor child of Want and Crime. 
 
 Think of the cot on some bleak plain. 
 
 Where Winter's winds their strength unchain ; 
 
 Where whirling through the leaden skies 
 
 The smothering tempest madly flies ! 
 
 There, hidden by the trackless snows. 
 
 Poor suffering Worth sustains its woes ; 
 
 Feeds spirit from the stores of faith, 
 
 While the poor body starves to death. 
 
 0, when will Heaven deign to give 
 To those who on its bounty live 
 
LAYS OP A TWELVEMONTH. 61 
 
 And have thereof to spare, 
 A, feeling heart, to cheer the sad, 
 To bless the good, to guide the bad, 
 
 And with the needy share ! 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 Since Bryant touched his harp for thee, 
 And sang thee in his tuneful strains, 
 
 How feeble the attempt in me 
 
 To sing thy winds and chequered plains ! 
 
 But still thy airs so freely blown. 
 Awake an answering chord ; to me 
 
 There 's music in thy piping tone, 
 Thy march is full of melody. 
 
 Thou call'st the rabbit from her lair, 
 And wonder beams in pussy's eyes ; 
 
 O'er the flecked hill-side, wearing bare, 
 With thy mad winds a race she tries. 
 
 Yonder the smoky column gray 
 
 Is wreathing from the leafless wood ; 
 
 There the swart rustic boils away 
 The sugar-maple's limpid blood. 
 
 There in his lonely camp he stays 
 And keeps his hermit fire a-glow ; 
 
 And feels relieved when o'er him strays 
 The hailing, reconnoitering crow. 
 
62 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 I mark yon early bird, and lone, 
 That plumes herself with idle bill, 
 
 Or tries a would-be merry tone 
 To soothe thy wild and wayward will. 
 
 The squirrel peeps from out his cell 
 When haply Phoebus warms the sky. 
 
 And hastes his moody mate to tell 
 Glad days are coming by-and-by. 
 
 And they will come ; e'en at thy heels 
 The lengthened hours of April tread ; 
 
 The earth her bubbling springs unseals, 
 And verdure vivifies the dead. 
 
 Wild month ! thy storm-eneircled ways 
 Mind me how good men's lives are past ; 
 
 Clouds may begirt them all their days, 
 But sunshine glorifies at last. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 The winds are called ; and pleasant days 
 
 Are giving gladness now ; 
 They call the cattle forth to graze, 
 
 The farmer to his plow. 
 
 Upon the mountain's sunward side 
 
 The maple shows its buds ; 
 The elm begins its shadow wide. 
 
 And birches scent the woods. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 53 
 
 The alder hangs its tassels out 
 
 Down by the water-side ; 
 Beneath the spring-enlivened trout 
 
 Like darting arrows glide. 
 
 The squirrel chatters on the bough, 
 
 The bird sings in the tree ; 
 Abroad is early roaming now 
 
 The honey-seeking bee. 
 
 At morn I saw a cloud like snow 
 
 Above the river lie ; 
 The day-beams chased it from below — 
 
 It vanished in the sky. 
 
 And so, like yon bright cloud, thought I, 
 
 Oft cherished fancies go ; 
 Dissolving, so they fade and fly, 
 
 As sure, but scarce as slow. 
 
 I saw at noon a passing shower 
 
 Steal o'er the landscape bright ; 
 It brought to mind a tearful hour 
 
 When looking for delight. 
 
 I saw above the sunken sun 
 
 Rich clouds in beauty piled ; 
 There, lingering when the day was done, 
 
 Reflected glory smiled. 
 
 So o'er the just, the good, the brave. 
 
 When all life's sails are furled. 
 Their virtues, clustering o'er the grave. 
 
 Still light a darkened world. 
 5* 
 
64 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Thou last, thou sweetest of the train 
 Of all the vernal sisters three ; 
 
 Whose vesture beautifies the plain, 
 Whose garlands rich bedeck the tree, 
 Whose melody, 
 
 Unwritten from the bush and bough, 
 
 Is music's own ; — thrice welcome thou ! 
 
 How like art thou to life's young morn, 
 E'er passion's fires begin to glow ! 
 
 E'er cares, like frosts, lay bare the thorn, 
 Or age makes pallid as the snow I 
 How like, I know. 
 
 To the bright morning of his day 
 
 Whose sun casts shadows o'er his lay ! 
 
 The twittering swallows wake the morn 
 
 Beneath the hospitable eaves ; 
 The cock blows shrill his clarion horn ; 
 The robin, hid among the leaves, 
 
 Her tribute gives, 
 Pouring her song to hail the day, 
 So sweet, so sorrowfully gay. 
 
 The brooks run sparkling to the day, 
 The bloom of trees perfumes the air ; 
 
 The landscape with its rich array 
 Seems one Elysian region fair, 
 Beyond compare 
 
 To aught save fancy's land of dreams, 
 
 That with phantasmal beauty teems. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 55 
 
 The harbinger of corn I heard 
 
 While furrowing the field to-day ; 
 The sweet prophetic planting-bird 
 
 Sang, perched upon the shaking spray, 
 His vocal lay ; 
 And, pausing o'er the plow to hear, 
 I answered thus the prattler dear : — 
 
 Sing on, sweet bird ! soon shall the corn 
 Upspringing from the ground appear ; 
 
 First will the spiky blade be born, 
 The tassel next, and next the ear, 
 And autumn sere 
 
 Shall heap upon the harvest plain 
 
 The ponderous sheaves of golden grain. 
 
 And on w4iose bounty shalt thou feed, 
 Meantime, who tell'st the time to plant ? 
 
 Come to my door in time of need, — 
 Thou shalt not for thy morsel want. 
 Say'st thou ' I sha'nt ?'— 
 
 Ah ! 't was thy neighbor of the bough 
 
 With dusky coat, — I see him, now ! 
 
 Fair May ! thy very name implies 
 A power, but of a doubtful kind : — 
 
 We may ' shoot folly as it flies,' 
 Or we may be, indeed, too blind ; 
 And we may find 
 
 That hatred, hope, e'en love sincere. 
 
 Are tethered to the rolling year ! 
 
56 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 Hail, beauteous June ! the twelvemonth's leafy prime ! 
 
 Unstained as yet by summer's dust and heat ; 
 Art may not copy from the book of time 
 
 Thy living tableau pleasing and complete. 
 
 This glorious ' blue of June' ! — the morning skies 
 Unchequered by a single cloudy fleece. 
 
 From wood and hill, from vale and stream arise 
 Incense and anthems to the Fount of Peace ! 
 
 I love to con the pictures in thy book, 
 0, moon of leaves ! all rurally displayed : 
 
 The grazing herd beside the clear, cold brook, 
 The green banks greener in the elmy shade ; 
 
 The woody mountain, in the distance blue ; 
 
 The valley where the sleeping waters shine ; 
 The lawn, the cornfield, emerald in hue ; — 
 
 All matchless limnings by a hand Divine. 
 
 There is a picture upon yonder slope, 
 So freshly verdant in the morning sun : 
 
 Two lambkins, types of Innocence and Hope, 
 O'er the bright carpet of the morning run. 
 
 How like two children in their careless play ! 
 
 How heedless of the butcher, like the child ! 
 I saw an old man looking, bowed and gray ; 
 
 He looked, seemed sorrowful, and faintly smiled. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 57 
 
 The housewife watching from the cottage door, 
 Sees o'er the hive the insect cloud arise ; 
 
 Diffused awhile on humming wings they soar, 
 And kindly cluster where their monarch flies. 
 
 From underneath the bridge the phoebe starts. 
 Scared by the footsteps of the passer by ; 
 
 Through the cool arches of the alders darts, 
 Or snaps on salient wings the dronish fly. 
 
 With early morn the strains of music come, 
 And summer's minstrels gladden all the day ; 
 
 The gold-fmch fifing and the cuckoo's drum, 
 The bob'link's demi-semi-quavered lay. 
 
 There is the sun-browned farmer at his toil, 
 
 Early afield among the springing corn ; 
 His are the healthful labors of the soil, 
 
 The noblest calling of a freeman born. 
 
 True son of Independence ! ah, how few 
 
 High sounding statesmen can thy merit claim ! 
 
 They may cause wars and fightings ; such as yoa 
 Save, in the battle's shock, the nation's name. 
 
 JULY. 
 
 On the fourth morning of thy moon. 
 From slumber we awaken soon ; 
 The thundering gun, and pealing bell 
 A nation's glad remembrance tell. 
 
58 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 ' Tis well ; I love to see the fire 
 
 Our father's built, re-burn ; 
 I love the memories of the sire — 
 
 The ashes, and the urn ! 
 I love to see the gray-haired man, 
 Who can tell more than history can, 
 Filled with emotion when he sees 
 That banner streaming in the breeze. 
 The tears that down his visage roll 
 When sounds that fire the soldier's soul 
 Break on his deadened ears, declare 
 He once was ready, and was there. 
 
 Haymakers to their labors speed 
 At morning's dewy dawn ; 
 
 They gather in the tangled mead 
 And on the upland lawn. 
 
 Through the tall grass the mower goes, 
 A day's work in his mein ; 
 
 The grass he likens to his foes. 
 His scythe to falchion keen. 
 
 (The farmer's life may peaceful be, 
 Free from all bloody feuds ; 
 
 Yet will he use instinctively 
 Warlike similitudes.) 
 
 High noon is blazing from the sky ; 
 Broad acres shorn and withered lie, 
 While in the maple's cooling shade 
 The mowers lazily are laid. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 59 
 
 The farmer springs from out his chair, 
 The weather is his watchful care 
 And not the terrors of lee-shore 
 Could startle hardy seaman more, 
 Than hira that growling from afar, 
 Proclaiming elemental war ; — 
 Sounds, which at distance far away, 
 I've heard my good old grandame say, 
 Seemed like the sullen booming gun 
 On battle-day at Bennington. 
 
 Sudden grows dark the western sky ; 
 All hands a-field ! is now the cry. 
 The cottage girl with laughing eyes 
 And flushed with health and exercise 
 Comes bounding outward from the door. 
 And half in sport, but something more, 
 Seizes a rake with carol cheery. 
 And with her presence fires the weary. 
 Then soon along the darkening road 
 Is trundling home the ponderous load. 
 Lively, my lads ! the rushing rain 
 Is just behind you on the plain ! 
 Lively ! and gain the open doors, 
 E'er pattering on the roof it pours. 
 
 Toil brings its recompense to one 
 
 Whose thoughts are working like his hands ; 
 For toil's reward is not alone 
 
 The product rich of fertile lands. 
 
60 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Does one possess the painter's eye, 
 Or sip the bright Pierian bowl ? 
 
 Then cares that listless ease deny 
 Stamp vigor's impress on his soul. — 
 
 Thus muses, in the gloaming, one 
 As round him meadows shorn are seen, 
 
 And the last pencil of the sun 
 
 Tinges the oaks with golden green ! 
 
 AUGUST — MY BIRTH-MONTH. 
 
 God of the years ! the month is born, 
 The month peculiarly my own, 
 
 When I, to lead life's hope forlorn, 
 All helpless on the world was thrown ! 
 
 August, thou month of months to me ! 
 
 Not for the beauty of thy scenes ; 
 Not harvests gladdening to see ; 
 
 But fast on thee my memory leans. 
 
 Not, as the poet sang, do I 
 
 ' Dim backward' on thy memories look ; 
 Distinctly on the past they lie 
 
 Like pictures painted in a book. 
 
 I've seen the arrow fly by day ; 
 
 I've seen the pestilence walk by night ; 
 And once beneath thy scathing ray 
 
 Death hid a cherub from my sight. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 61 
 
 Those torrid days and solemn eves, — 
 The cricket's dull and dreamy sound ; 
 
 The moonlight, shivered by the leaves, 
 All ghastly flickering on the ground ! 
 
 Like as the soldier, who survives 
 The battle's rage and carnage sore, 
 
 Will wonder how it is he lives. 
 
 When thinking all its perils o'er ; — 
 
 E'en so do I look back and see 
 
 All the grim scenes thro' which I've pass'd, 
 x\nd wonder how remains for me 
 
 The mortal conflict and the last. 
 
 Blent with the seasons is our life ; 
 
 E'en so it springs, e'en so departs ; 
 And tokens of a mortal strife 
 
 Are monthly graven on our hearts. 
 
 But there's another life to come ; 
 
 The thoughtful know and feel it sure ; 
 Where virtue shall attain its home, 
 
 And worth be honored that is pure. 
 
 A sort of harvest 't will appear, — 
 A mighty gathering of the grain ; 
 
 But many a sheaf called noble here, 
 Will not be counted so again. 
 
62 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Yes, the great Reaper, we are told 
 Shall be the judge of all the earth ; 
 
 Things by right names shall then be called 
 Pride will be pnc?e, and worth be worth. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 There's a note of sadness found 
 
 In the breeze ; 
 As it sweeps the dwelling round ; 
 And it goes with sighing sound 
 
 Through the trees. 
 
 Round the corner of the lone 
 
 Cottage wall 
 Comes a hollow, mystic moan, 
 And the hearer says the tone 
 
 ' Sounds like Fall.' 
 
 And the evenings have a chill 
 
 Frosty gleam ; 
 White the mist at morning still 
 Climbing lazily the hill 
 
 From the stream. 
 
 Now bends the lowering sky 
 
 To the plain ; 
 Or damp the south winds fly, 
 And the rack goes drifting by, 
 
 Boding rain. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 63 
 
 Now there's gladness in our ways 
 
 As we go ; 
 There's a pleasant smoky haze, 
 Such as Indian-summer days 
 
 Always show. 
 
 Plenty follows in the train 
 
 Of the plough ; 
 Lo ! the stooks of yellow grain 
 Dotting o'er the harvest plain ; 
 
 Lo ! the bough. 
 
 Fruits are ripening in the rays 
 
 Of the sun ; 
 And the ' lap of earth' displays 
 What in spring's engendering days 
 
 Was begun. 
 
 So September comes arrayed — 
 
 Plenteous dame ! 
 But with all her cheer displayed, 
 There's a sombre little shade 
 
 On her name. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Lift up your eyes, and look abroad 
 Upon this gorgeous scene ; 
 
 It is the last upon the road 
 
 Spring and the snows between ; 
 
64 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 And though a heaufceous vista may, 
 Through coming glooms, a moment play, 
 This shows as when a painter tries 
 A last grand effort ere he dies. 
 
 Let him who reads the falling leaf 
 
 His symbol of decay, 
 Blend with the plaintive winds his grief. 
 
 And mourn, as mourn he may« 
 And let him look with eye of faith 
 Beyond the brumal bourn of death, 
 And picture heaven blooming fair 
 And vernal freshness fadeless there. — 
 
 But I will mourn that thou art brief, 
 
 October in thy stay ; 
 That thou art passing as the leaf 
 
 Drifts downward and away ; 
 And for the clime of heaven fair, 
 Give me the Indian-summer there ! 
 For never does it bless us here 
 But that I dream 't will there appear. 
 
 0, charming scenes ! on looking back 
 
 To childhood's sunny ways. 
 The brightest spots upon life's track 
 
 Are these Autumnal days ; 
 The breezy wood, the hazy sun, 
 The river-shore, and well-kept gun ; 
 The dog that loved his master-boy, 
 And scoured the landscape, mad with joy. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 65 
 
 The ramble on the frosty morn, 
 
 Nut-seeking, brisk and boon ; 
 The social husking of the corn. 
 
 The full, old-fashioned moon ; 
 The harvest-home beneath its beams. 
 The murmured music of the streams, 
 The mountain's prismy forest-wall. 
 The holy calm enwraping all ! 
 
 As hope, with her enchanting ray, 
 
 Intangible, yet bright, 
 Illumines childhood's flowery way 
 
 With undefined delight, — 
 So when the Pride of Autumn comes, 
 Its glorious gladness, and its glooms, 
 A pensive charm pervades my mind. 
 Complete and sweet, yet undefined. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 The beauty of the fields is flown. 
 
 All withered their array ; 
 The brooks sing in an undertone. 
 
 The woods are grim and gray ; 
 O'er all of Nature's face is thrown 
 
 The semblance of decay. 
 
 The ditcher in the lonely mead 
 
 Arouses with surprise, 
 To hear from some frost-blackened weed 
 
 6# 
 
THE HARP AND PLOW, 
 
 The pee-dee's startling cries ; 
 Sees solitary ravens speed 
 Along the windy skies. 
 
 Impending storms ; the frozen north 
 Is treasuring snow and hail ; 
 
 The south is threatening the earth 
 With rain and gusty gale ; 
 
 And Phoebus when he glimmers forth 
 Looks sickly, cold, and pale. 
 
 Foreshortened by the cloudy sky, 
 
 The day is quickly done ; 
 'T is twilight to the laborer's eye 
 
 Ere sets the tarnished sun ; 
 A hunter, idly halting nigh, 
 
 Gives him the * evening gun.' 
 
 The cotter in the chimney-nook 
 Sits looking in the fire ; 
 
 There is a sadness in his look- 
 He hears a pensive lyre ; 
 
 The music is of nature's book. 
 And her autumnal choir. 
 
 The night-winds, roaring o'er the lea, 
 Begirt his dwelling round ; 
 
 Now shrill their melancholy key, 
 Now lowly and profound ; 
 
 The cotter hears, and pensively 
 He muses at the sound. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 67 
 
 Anon he opes the door to spy 
 
 The aspect of the night ; 
 Dark clouds are driving 'thwart the sky, 
 
 And wild-fowl on their flight ; 
 He hears their undulating cry, 
 
 Faint from their distant height. 
 
 Borne inland from the misty deep 
 
 Now comes the loitering rain ; 
 The dreamer, waking from his sleep, 
 
 Listens, and dreams again 
 Of plunging barks, that, wrecking, sweep 
 
 The storm-enshrouded main. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 Cold swept the withering blasts of fall 
 O'er herbage green, and sheltering tree ; 
 
 Thro' naked boughs the gleaning winds 
 Are howling mournfully. 
 
 Cold drives snow-muffling Boreas 
 
 Outside of comfort's well-barr'd door ; 
 
 Cold as thy presence is thy name, 
 December, to the poor. 
 
 Cold gleam the stars at night ; afar, 
 High in the north, the Dipper shines, 
 
 As if 'twere dripping with the wealth 
 Of Californian mines. 
 
68 THE HAKP AND PLOW. 
 
 Ah ! -wanderer to the auric shore ! 
 
 Sunk from thj sight yon cluster glows ; 
 So hope's bright phantom, chased by thee, 
 
 Round earth's rotunda goes. 
 
 A year's a type of human life ; 
 
 December truly symbols age ; 
 A year is like a volume read, 
 
 And this the final page. 
 
 A year is like a beaten road, 
 
 O'er which, as travellers, we wend 
 
 Our way amid its changeful scenes, 
 And this the journey's end. 
 
 A year is like a lengthened day ; 
 
 It has its dawn, its noon, its night ; 
 December is the sunset scene. 
 
 Pale glimmering on the sight. 
 
 A year is like a stream that flows 
 Thro' varied clime and scenery, 
 
 To find oblivion in the deep — 
 And this the opening sea. 
 
 A year is like the implement 
 The patriarch in vision found, 
 
 Spaced by twelve steps, in place of three- 
 And this the lowest round. 
 
LAYS OF A TWELVEMONTH. 09 
 
 Reared 'gainst time's shadowy battlements 
 
 It leans, dissolving to the view ; 
 Ho ! climber, chiseling a name ! 
 
 'T is gone, and jours, and you ! 
 
 0, could one lift the solemn veil 
 
 That shrouds the mighty Past, and see 
 
 Departed years in centuries piled — 
 The coins of Deity ; 
 
 And could he see as in a glass 
 
 All the great family of man, 
 Those whose desires encompassed earth, 
 
 Now under Lethe's ban ; 
 
 Lost and unknown with all their deeds. 
 Lost and unknown with all their fame, — 
 
 Less would he strive to write upon 
 Time's flying scroll his name. 
 
 But rather this : that when the years 
 
 To him allotted, all are told. 
 He may on Heaven's ledger find 
 
 His credit good enrolled. 
 
VISION OF POESY.* 
 
 IIow strangely real often seem 
 The wild chimeras of a dream ! 
 One may in vision catch a gleam 
 
 Of glory bright, 
 That never blest, with faintest beam, 
 
 His wakeful sight. 
 
 Gone was a tiresome harvest day ; 
 The moon resumed her nightly sway, 
 And toil exhausted reapers lay 
 
 In slumber deep, 
 And I, bethinking how to pray, 
 
 Had drop'd asleep. 
 
 But mine that night was troubled sleep ; 
 In fancy still a-field to reap. 
 With all my skill I could not keep 
 
 My gavels true ; 
 As adverse, crinkling winds would sweep 
 
 My endless through. 
 
 ^ Revised from first edition. The rendition of an actual and re 
 markable dream of the author, occurring as narrated. 
 
VISION OF POESY. 71 
 
 When lo ! a supernatural light 
 Flashed round my couch, surpassing bright, 
 While I, confounded at a sight 
 
 So strangely dread, 
 Beneath the mantle in affright 
 
 Concealed my head. 
 
 Bewildered with a sense of fear 
 That visitation dread was near, 
 I waited awful sounds to hear, 
 
 Like dying groans, 
 Some spectral form might slow uprear 
 Its chalky bones ! 
 
 When wild, sweet music, soft and low, 
 To time harmonious gliding slow. 
 With soothing import seemed to flow. 
 
 All fear to quell ; 
 Whereat, well pleased, quoth I, I'll know 
 
 Who plays so well ! 
 
 Unveiling then my wondering eyes, 
 I saw, entranced with deep surprise. 
 An angel-tenant of the skies, — 
 
 It seemed to be — 
 Standing arrayed in beauteous guise. 
 Beholding me. 
 
 The phantom seemed a maiden fair, 
 With long bright locks of auburn hair ; 
 Her arm and snowy bosom bare. 
 Of sculptured mould ; 
 
72 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Her graceful robe ! — no mortals wear 
 That airj fold I 
 
 Her eyes were lit with fancy's fire ; 
 One hand was clasped upon a lyre 
 The chords of which were golden wire, 
 
 Well worth the Muse ; 
 Such as one deems the heavenly choir 
 
 Are wont to use. 
 
 The lyre she raised, and brushed a string 
 Softly as with a zephyr's wing ; 
 I heard the wire responsive ring 
 
 That mystic tone, 
 Which can the heart's most tender spring 
 
 Unlock alone. 
 
 Pensive she gazed upon my face, 
 And seemed thereon my thoughts to trace ; 
 Then with a noiseless, gliding pace 
 
 Approached the fair, 
 And thus she spoke with native grace, 
 
 And noble air : — 
 
 ^ Hail, Reaper, hail ! distrust not me, 
 Thy foster-mother, Poesy ! 
 I come with tidings unto thee, 
 
 Blest of the Nine ! 
 I come to tell thee thou shalt be 
 
 Acknowledged mine ! 
 
 ' To Scotia's rustic bard I came 
 To crown his brow with bays of fame. 
 
VISION OF POESY. 73 
 
 And hand posterity his name 
 
 Recorded bright. 
 Haply of thee some bard the same 
 
 One day may write. 
 
 ' To numbers I attuned his tongue ; 
 Prompted by me his lyre he strung 
 And to his raptured country sung 
 
 His ditties wild ; 
 While fast to Nature's robes he clung — 
 
 Her loving child. 
 
 ' I know thou lovest Nature well, 
 Tho' faithless all thy love to tell ; 
 With her 't is thy delight to dwell, 
 
 With her to stray 
 Down purling brook or lonely dell 
 In musing way. 
 
 ' When Spring with all her winning powers 
 Invites thee forth within her bowers, 
 I see thee from her bright-eyed hours 
 
 That skip along, 
 Her leafy sprays, and fragrant flowers 
 
 Indite the song. 
 
 ' When Summer with her mantle green 
 In all her beauteous prime is seen, 
 I note thy soberness of mien. 
 
 And thoughtful look ; 
 From her thou dost instruction glean 
 As from a book. 
 7 
 
74 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 ' When sober Autumn^s moons appe ar, 
 I see thee mark the rolling year, 
 Its withered foliage scattering sere, 
 
 With deep delight ; 
 Her voiceful winds you love to hear. 
 Enraptured quite. 
 
 ' When hoary Winter laps his shroud 
 
 'er Nature's face, thy muse is proud 
 To hear the bellowing demon crowd 
 
 At midnight run ; 
 Or, see the drifty, smothering cloud 
 Pall the pale sun ! 
 
 ' When Fortune, with her fickle'hand 
 Beckoned thee to a distant strand, 
 
 1 saw thee list to her command 
 
 And willing go ; 
 But bad'st farewell thy native land 
 In dirge of wo. 
 
 ' And when beneath a milder clime 
 Where folly takes " no note of time," 
 Where reveled riot boasts of crime — 
 
 I've seen thee raise 
 Thy harp and strike a tuneful chime — 
 New England's praise. 
 
 ' And when the voice of human woe 
 You hear, in trem'lous accents low, 
 I note the sympathetic flow 
 
 That marks thy strains ; 
 
VISION OF POESY. 75 
 
 You burn to see the gew-gaw show, 
 And worth in chains. 
 
 ^}I see thee, scion of that race 
 Who dared Oppression's might to face ; 
 You love their hallowed steps to trace 
 
 With ardor true ; 
 Inherent patriotic grace 
 
 Shall hallow you. 
 
 ' This have I heard and seen in thee, — 
 Well pleased to hear, well pleased to see ; 
 This mantle, sacred unto me, 
 
 Shall thee enfold ! 
 Amongst thy country's bards shall be 
 
 Thy name enrolled ! 
 
 ' And take thou this, my sounding lyre ! 
 And let it rouse thy soul to fire ! 
 Strike from it strains that shall not tire, — 
 
 Sing from the Jieart ; 
 Thy country's glory shall inspire 
 
 Your tuneful art. 
 
 ' When on the hill-side or the plain 
 You guide the plough, or reap the grain, 
 Be free to wake the rural strain. 
 Your toils to cheer ; 
 For ever with you I'll remain 
 
 To prompt and hear. 
 
 ' Sing of thy ancient, noble state ; 
 Her worthy sons — renowned great ; 
 
76 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Her patriotic dead, whose fate 
 
 Your freedom gave ;— 
 
 Her PATEiOTic pirb innate 
 
 That burns to save ! 
 
 ' Sing of New England, favored land ! 
 Her customs dear — her social band ; 
 Her everlasting hills that stand 
 Above her meads, 
 As when at first, by His command, 
 They reared their heads ! 
 
 ' Sing of her streams, meandering slow. 
 Or rushing, seaward as they flow ; 
 Her beetling crags that backward throw 
 
 The climbing seas ; 
 Her blessed homes out-looking low 
 
 From sheltering trees. 
 
 ' Tell of her sons that rove the earth 
 Far from the country of their birth ; 
 Tell of the bright domestic hearth — 
 
 Her daughters fair ; 
 The virtue, innocence and worth 
 
 Refulgent there. 
 
 * And now to this incline thine ear :— 
 In every place true worth revere ; 
 Respect thyself, nor censure fear 
 
 For thy poor lays ; 
 Let e'en Fame's minions never hear 
 
 Thee fawn for praise. 
 
VISION OF POESY. 77 
 
 * Envy not Mammon with his gold ; 
 My gifts can not be bought and sold. 
 Envy not Pride-of-place enrolled 
 
 With pomp and power ; — 
 The Bard his title still shall hold 
 As HeaverCs doiver P 
 
 Thus spoke the gracious, heaven-born maid. 
 I listened well, — no more afraid, 
 For all distrust and fear were laid 
 
 Forgotten by ; 
 And took the lyre, e'en as she bade, 
 
 My skill to try. 
 
 Then, as her mantle o'er me fell, 
 Enchantment wrapt me in its spell. 
 How sweetly did my numbers swell 
 
 And glide along ! 
 0, for the gift once more to tell 
 
 That rapturous song ! 
 I ceased to sing, with lyre upraised, 
 At my unwonted skill amazed, 
 Waiting expectant to be praised ; — 
 
 Could 8he be there ? 
 I turned to look, but sorrowing gazed 
 
 On empty air ! 
 For Phoebus from his ocean-bed 
 Aloft his morning signals spread ; 
 Pale in the dawn my vision fled 
 
 Like wreathing smoke ; 
 And I to song of birds, instead 
 
 Of mine, awoke. 
 
 7* 
 
AN AUTUMNAL LEAF. 
 
 When withered leaves around my way 
 
 Drift; in the fresh autumnal blast, 
 I view them, as they rustling play, 
 
 As Summer's phantoms flitting past. 
 In some still nook, or sheltering lee 
 Of roaring woods, they seem to me 
 When resting from their eddying flight, 
 
 To build departed Summer's urn ; 
 Where Phoebus pours a saddened light 
 
 Like moonlight fanned to burn. 
 
 The rivulet lowers its babbling voice, 
 
 Past its brown banks runs dreamily ; 
 It seems to take, as if from choice. 
 
 The melancholy minor key. 
 
 All nature 's full of sympathy : 
 The winds and waters, woods and plains. 
 Together blend their dirge-like strains ; 
 The lonely bird forbears to sing ; 
 
 Grief-stifled seems each tuneful throat ; 
 E'en darker grows the raven's wing, 
 
 And desert-like his note. 
 
AN AUTUMNAL LEAF. 79 
 
 The herd-boy, keeping watch a-field 
 
 Beside the late outstanding grain, 
 Marks leaves in gusty circles wheeled 
 
 And scattered o'er the russet plain ; 
 Or sees the wavy line that floats 
 In the gray rack to flute-like notes ; 
 Wild fowl are harrowing the sky, 
 
 The early harbingers of snow ; 
 Far southward on his straining eye 
 
 All indistinct they grow. 
 
 The dying winds, as sets the sun, 
 
 Usher the gloaming and expire ; 
 The frosty stars gleam, one by one. 
 
 Like ice reflecting distant fire. 
 The moon awaits her time to rise 
 To bathe with her cold light the skies ; 
 The frost king creeps in stillness forth ; 
 
 While shooting upward high and higher, 
 The nameless wizzard of the north 
 
 Kindles his ghostly fire. 
 
 The peasant homeward hieing now. 
 
 Belated, turns his thoughtful gaze. 
 And sees on high the starry ' Plough' 
 
 Pale through the evanescent blaze. 
 Thoughts, sad yet pleasing, crowd his mind ; 
 Thoughts formless half, and half defined, 
 Such as the bard and painter feel. 
 
 But fail to picture or to sing ; 
 Thoughts that of genius fix the seal 
 
 And point her upward wing ! 
 
80 THE HAEP AND PLOW. 
 
 The hunter, camped beside the spring, 
 
 Where the red maple sheltering stands, 
 As low the welling waters sing, 
 
 And cheerful shine his blazing brands, 
 Moodily muses as his eye 
 Watches the flashing northern sky. 
 And dreams in Odin's distant hall 
 
 Hunters some kingly banquet share, 
 And he, one day, when Death shall call, 
 
 Shall mingle with them there. 
 
 When withered leaves around my way 
 
 Drift in the fresh autumnal blast, 
 I look upon them as they play. 
 
 As Summer's phantoms flitting past. 
 In stilly nook, or sheltering lee 
 Of waving woods, they seem to me, 
 When gathering from their eddying flight, 
 
 To build departed Summer's urn. 
 Where Phoebus pours a mellowed light 
 
 Like moonlight fanned to burn. 
 
TO A WILD ROSE. 
 
 Sweet offspring of the solitude ! 
 Dost in this lonely spot elude 
 The wanton gaze and notice rude 
 
 Of vulgar eyes ? 
 Hear me, if I on thee intrude, 
 
 Apologize ! 
 
 No rival, tender-hearted /a^V, 
 Made thy young growth her willing care, 
 Nor hid thee when the frosty air 
 
 Spread winter wide ; 
 Or marks thee blooming rich and rare 
 
 In flowery pride. 
 
 Deep in the woodland, wild to view. 
 Flora, lone-straying, planted you ; 
 Mild Yesper wet with gentle dew, 
 
 The teeming earth. 
 And Phoebus peeped the foliage through 
 
 To hail thy birth. 
 
82 • THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Near thee, in ever watchful mood, 
 The partridge trains her little brood ; 
 And pussy comes o'er many a rood. 
 
 With dewy feet. 
 To mingle with her morning food 
 
 Thy fragrance sweet. 
 
 Sweet little rose ! thou mindest me 
 Of innocence and modesty ; 
 Apart the world, and lone, like thee, 
 
 They, too, are raised 
 Beneath some cottage-sheltering tree, 
 
 Unknown, un praised. 
 
 Emblem of worcA— (alas, how true !) 
 That in retirement, veiled from view. 
 Gives to its poor unnoticed few, 
 
 A conscience clean ; 
 Then in the spot whereon it grew, 
 
 It dies unseen 1 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE CLARA.* 
 
 It was in the summer time, 
 
 And the leaves were in their prime 
 
 And their pride ; 
 It was early in the morn, 
 And a robin sang forlorn 
 
 When she died. 
 
 You have seen a budding flower 
 In some sweet, domestic bower — 
 
 Fair to see ; 
 You have seen a lily white, 
 Pure, and beauteous, and bright ; 
 
 Such was she ! 
 
 You have seen that cherished flower 
 In some sad untimely hour 
 
 Leave its tree ; 
 You have seen the lily lost 
 Even when you prized it most ; 
 
 So was she ! 
 
 You can see, on looking back 
 O'er life's memorable track, 
 With a sigh, 
 
 * GUI, iVfcss.— Died, Clara, daughter of Josiah D. aud Josephine 
 M. P. Canning, 1^ years. 
 
84 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Scenes so sweet they even seem 
 Like the fiction of a dream ; 
 So can I ! 
 
 As is written in the Word, 
 ' When the candle of the Lord' 
 
 O'er you shone ; 
 You renew the past awhile, 
 As you ponder you would smile ; 
 
 But you groan. 
 
 For, perhaps, a little child 
 In its innocence has smiled 
 
 On your knee ; 
 Or has hailed you from the door, 
 When the toils of day were o'er, 
 
 With its glee. 
 
 Now in vain those little feet 
 
 You may watch to hear, and meet, 
 
 As you come 
 With a slow and sober tread. 
 For your thoughts are on the dead, 
 
 And their home. 
 
 And, perhaps, on looking back 
 O'er life's melancholy track. 
 
 With a sigh. 
 You can tell the sons of mirth 
 You are getting weaned from earth ; 
 
 So can I ! 
 
MY BROTHER'S OCEAN-GRAVE. 
 
 I WENT to view a brother's grave ; 
 Not where the weeping willows wave 
 
 Their pendent branches green ; 
 Not where the spire, with sunward slope, 
 Points steadfast to the realms of Hope 
 
 Above a quiet scene ! 
 
 Not where the monumental stone 
 Or chiseled statue stands a lone 
 
 Cold sentry o'er the dead ; 
 Not where Affection plants with care 
 Exotics rich and flowers rare 
 
 To dress the sleeper's bed. 
 
 Not where the sunlight on the sod 
 Gilds, like the blessed smile of God, 
 
 The couch of mortal rest ; 
 Where songs of birds and zephyrs fair 
 Foreshadow to the mourner there 
 
 The regions of the blest. 
 
 Oh, no ! I went to view again 
 The gray and melancholy main, 
 
 And rode the storm-rolled wave ; 
 8 
 
86 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 I mused upon the waters wild, 
 Befitting tomb for Ocean's child ; — 
 There was my brother's grave ! 
 
 God, In His providence, appears 
 At times to spurn Affection's tears 
 
 And ineffective prayers ; 
 At times 't would seem as if the just 
 He crushed by sorrows to the dust, 
 
 And ' bands' in death were theirs. 
 
 Such my distracting thoughts, when first. 
 Years since, the tidings o'er me burst 
 
 Like thunder from the cloud ; 
 News of a brother's mortal sleep, 
 His corse ' committed to the deep,' 
 
 Lashed in his hammock-shroud 1 
 
 But now I love the restless sea ; 
 Oh, what a mighty grave has he 
 
 Within its bosom vast ! 
 Its voiceful billows, as they roll. 
 Wake solemn music in my soul, 
 
 Besponsive to the past. 
 
 Buried of Ocean ! though my eye 
 Saw not where thy cold ashes lie, 
 
 Not that do I deplore ; 
 In death thou'rt blest ; thy grave, the sea. 
 Is nobler far than mine will be 
 
 Upon the tamer shore ! 
 
LINES TO A BULLET FROM THE FIELD OF 
 WATERLOO.* 
 
 Bullet from the famous fraj, 
 
 Waterloo ! 
 Long ago, and far away, — 
 
 Bloody Waterloo ! 
 Looking on thy battered form, 
 Fancy paints the sulphur storm ; 
 Paints the red sod reeking warm ; 
 
 Paints dread Waterloo ! 
 
 Ball from the mighty battle, say, 
 Was thy flight harmless on that day ? 
 A gunner's practised eye can see 
 Scarce harmless could thy mission be ; 
 Cain's murderous marks on thee impress'd, 
 Puts sceptic doubt at once to rest. 
 
 Hadst thou a tongue, then such a tale 
 As wets the cheek of Pity, pale, 
 Thou mightst reveal, thyself to show 
 The witless cause of weighty woe. 
 
 * A genuine relic ; presented to the author by Junius D. Adams, 
 Esq., Slockbridge, Berkshire. 
 
88 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 In some sweet, rural spot, perchance 
 A vineyard green of sunny France, 
 Some love-lorn maiden long bemourned 
 Thy conscript victim unreturned ; 
 Wandered the purpling alleys o'er 
 Lamenting him she saw no more. 
 And he, prone on the trampled soil 5 
 Amidst the raging fight's turmoil^ 
 Wept with affection's feehng true 
 As he recalled her last adieu, 
 The scenes, the hopes of youthful prime. 
 Fast fading with the ebb of time. 
 
 Perchance on haughty Albion's shore 
 Some titled mourners did deplore 
 In all the pageantry of woe, 
 One whom thy fatal flight laid low ; 
 One who found death in seeking fame— 
 The bubble of a sounding name. 
 
 Perhaps in heathered Scottish dell 
 Was heard the pibrock's wailing swell 
 Filling the clannish haunts with grief 
 For ' bonnie lad' or ' Hieland chief,' 
 Whose tartan was his shrouding, too. 
 Beneath the turf of Waterloo. 
 
 Perhaps one bowed by many years 
 Went grieving down the ' vale of tears,' 
 Of whose declining days the stay 
 Thou didst in battle strike away, 
 
LINES TO A BULLET. 89 
 
 And left embittered, hopeless age 
 To mourn Ambition's jealous rage. 
 
 0, fell Ambition ! thou hast sown 
 Discordant seeds, and warrings grown ; 
 Plucked up the peaceful oUves where 
 They grew, and set hell's bale-fires there. 
 0, fell Ambition. — heartless fiend ! 
 What horrid harvests thou hast gleaned ! 
 The battle field thy threshing floor; 
 Thy garners stained with human gore 1 
 
 Wert thou a relic, blood ensealed, 
 From Saratoga's storied field ; 
 From Monmouth's plain, or Bunker's height — 
 Spots dear to Freedom and the Right, — 
 Then wouldst thou seem another thing ; 
 Then nobler numbers might I sing ; 
 Then this I write, to him who read, 
 Might not be leaden Lines on Lead ; 
 But both my musings and my theme 
 Seem bright as CaUfornian dream. 
 Then on my horn-hard palm I'd take 
 Thee, for my soldier grandsire's sake, 
 And see a halo round thee shine 
 To warm my heart and gild my line ; 
 For in thy battered form I'd see 
 The daysman of my liberty ; 
 And show thee up to tyrants, for 
 Remembrancer and monitor. 
 8* 
 
90 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 But when ambitious man sits down 
 And counts his chances for a crown, 
 And reckons up with idle pen 
 The hecatombs of fellow men 
 That he must marshal out to die 
 To throne him regally and high ; 
 When tyrant power sends forth its slaves 
 To murderous fight and bloody graves, — 
 No freeborn bard may wake the strain 
 Heroic, o'er th' ensanguined plain, 
 Or kindle at a thing like you. 
 Ball from the field of Waterloo ! 
 
THE FARMER TO HIS PLOUGH. 
 
 Not homely is the theme I sing, 
 Tho' fancy seldom plumes her wing 
 
 Beside thy glittering share ; 
 She '11 "wander, first, earth's confines o'er, 
 And search, and draw from fab'lous lore, 
 
 Her burden and her care. 
 
 Not homely is the theme I sing. 
 Though some account thee but a thing 
 
 Devoid of every grace ; 
 I know not who invented thee ; 
 Whoe'er he was, he ought to be 
 
 The glory of our race. 
 
 The sailor on his anchor leans. 
 The soldier dotes on battle-scenes, 
 
 And shows his gleaming brand ; 
 But forward comes the farmer now, 
 With honest front, the good old plough 
 
 Beneath his horny band ! 
 
92 THE HARP AND PLOW, 
 
 The throne, the sceptre, and the crown 
 May into ruins crumble down ; 
 
 Still man in peace may rest ; 
 Wealth may take wings and fly away, 
 The luxuries of pride decay. 
 
 Still man be truly blest : — 
 
 But banish thee from off the earth ! 
 Then wailing takes the place of mirth 
 
 And direful woe upsprings ; 
 Then Desolation blights the land. 
 And Famine, with her bony hand, 
 
 Defies the wants of kings. 
 
 Back through the hoary old I look 
 To find the plough and reaping-hook : 
 
 I find them there, and view 
 Old rapt Elisha at the plough. 
 And Cincinnatus' thoughtful brow 
 
 All damp with labor's dew. 
 
 Though I may never hope to drive 
 The team Elisha drove,* or thrive 
 
 With Cincinnatus' fame ; 
 Yet fast by thee, old plough ! I'll stand. 
 And let my thoughts run more * to land,^ 
 
 Than on a mighty name. 
 
 * See 1st Kings; xix chap. 19 verse. 
 
THE HARVEST MOON. 
 
 I. 
 
 The burning sun has gone to rest ; 
 
 All cloudless are the skies ; 
 The breeze blows softly from the west ; 
 
 Night's dreamy strains arise. 
 Forgotten now the toil, the heat 
 
 That marked the glittering noon, 
 As o'er the eastern hills I greet 
 
 The reaper's yellow moon. 
 
 II. 
 
 Aloft she cleaves the ether thin 
 
 And * beautifully blue,' 
 As if impatient to begin 
 
 The evening and the dew ; 
 As if in mirthful mood she chased 
 
 Old Phoebus to his rest. 
 And spied him rounding in his haste 
 
 The corner of the west. 
 
94 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 III. 
 
 What placid beauty, what repose 
 
 Makes lovely now the night, 
 As o'er the landscape Luna throws 
 
 Her mollifying light ! 
 The mountain, steep and rough by day, 
 
 Seems now a smoother hill ; 
 So softening influence may allay 
 
 Man's rade, imperious will. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The reaper sees each well known field 
 
 Assume some fairy change ; 
 And forms fantastic seem revealed 
 
 Where swaying shadows range. 
 The rustic bridge that spans the stream 
 
 Seems now a gem of art, 
 So sweetly does the nightly beam 
 
 Perform the pencil's part. 
 
 V. 
 
 Fit season for ideal dream ! 
 
 While plodding mortals sleep, 
 I'll wander by the lonely stream 
 
 And musing vigils keep. 
 The glancing ripple, and the still 
 
 Deep water's shady flow, 
 Remind me of a hasty will, 
 
 And cautious prudence slow. 
 
LINES TO A BEE. 95 
 
 VI. 
 
 The zephyrs wandering thro' the vale, 
 
 As if without an aim, 
 Shall fan the spark of fancy pale 
 
 To vivifying flame. 
 And thou, bright beamer, far overhead, 
 
 Composing toil and strife ! 
 Thou dost in bands of beauty wed 
 
 The reaper to his life. 
 
 LINES TO A BEE. 
 
 Thou 'rt weary, busy little thing ! 
 Thy load is large, and small thy wing ; 
 And then to give that Higldand fling 
 
 As you alighted ! 
 No wonder you displayed your sting 
 
 Before you righted. 
 
 All things have failings, so we see ; 
 E'en thou who art, as all agree. 
 The very soul of industry, 
 
 And else of merit. 
 Art tempered like the very De , 
 
 Nay, Uvil Spirit. 
 
96 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 When morning opes her brightening eye, 
 Thou scan'st the aspect of the sky, 
 And if no murky storm be nigh 
 
 Or tempest hover, 
 Your tiny wings are spread to fly 
 
 To fields of clover. 
 
 There, busy through the live long day, 
 You cull your sweets and bear away ; 
 And though for miles abroad you stray, 
 
 Ne'er lost in straying ; 
 Thou art for straightness in survey 
 
 A common saying. 
 
 From bees man may a lesson draw 
 In order, government, and law ; 
 No law he ever framed that saw, 
 
 Of time, the tithe 
 Of that which back to chaos raw 
 
 Has marked the hive. 
 
 No change your government has made 
 Since bees at first their taste displayed, 
 Nor shall new laws derange your trade. 
 
 Ye sweet distillers ! 
 Till earth and bees at rest are laid 
 
 By fire or Millers. 
 
 Fixed in one course, you firm abide ; 
 And, though all patriotic pride. 
 
LINES TO A BEE. 97 
 
 You never boast you 've bled and died 
 
 To save your nation ; 
 Then come to life and long preside 
 
 In some fat station j 
 
 But let a foe invade your ground, 
 And hark ! how fierce the warriors sound ! 
 No lack of practice either 's found — 
 
 All seek the fight ; 
 And he who 'd face the vollied round 
 
 You '11 put to flight. 
 
 E'en Samson, whose strong arm refused 
 No giant deed, upon you mused ;* 
 But still I 'm thinking he abused 
 
 You grossly, sonny ; 
 Some foul chicanery he used 
 
 To get your honey. 
 
 0, could old Sloth thy habits know ! 
 Could Uncle Sam thy wisdom show, 
 How round his public purse would grow ! 
 
 How deep his pocket ! 
 How would his Loco-motive go 
 
 Ahead, like Crocket ! 
 
 * Judges, chapter xiv. 
 
THE THRESHER AND THE RAT. 
 
 'T WAS when the bridge the frost had made. 
 Had robbed the Charon of his trade ; 
 When shpping sleighs and jingling bells 
 Supplied the place of rattling wheels ; — 
 When side-long looked the southing sun, 
 And labor out-of-door was done, 
 A farmer to his barn did go 
 To thresh, as he was wont to do. 
 
 He was as strong a man as ever 
 Beneath the bowlders thrust a lever ; 
 As brave a man as aught of those 
 Who faced on Bunker-Hill their foes ; 
 As honest as the man who sweat 
 For forty years to pay a debt ; 
 A patriot, and no truer one 
 Tecumseh was, or Washington ; — 
 He was, to make description short, 
 A yankee of the goodly sort. 
 
 The wheaten sheaves he spread and pounded ; 
 The echoes to his flail resounded ; 
 
THE THRESHER AND THE RAT. 99 
 
 The OX looked wise at what he saw, 
 
 And tasted daintily the straw ; 
 
 The fowls came craking round the door 
 
 For seeds that flew beyond the floor ; 
 
 And loudly in the thresher's ear 
 
 Sang old time-keeping Chanticleer. 
 
 But moodily the thresher wrought, 
 
 And thinking, (for he must have thought,) 
 
 While he the bearded grain was threshing, 
 
 Of men who needed such a dressing. 
 
 The seventh shock he'd just begun — 
 (He chalked the number, one by one,) — 
 But scarce had he a dozen thumped, 
 When forth a rat, confounded, jumped ! 
 
 THRESHER. 
 
 Stop thief! here, Jowler, come and shake him ! 
 Here, pussy, pussy ! quick, and take him ! 
 These blasted rats have torn my sheaves. 
 Like old ' Aunt Lizzy's' bible' leaves. 
 No candidate, in search of Sunday, 
 E'er owned a horse one-half so hungry. 
 
 His words with speech inspired the rat ; 
 He turned, and on his haunches sat : 
 
 RAT. 
 
 I pray thee, goodman, stop thy grieving 
 That I, poor body, get a living ; 
 
100 THE HAKP AND PLOW. 
 
 And, rather pitj, when I tell ye 
 You 've pounded me almost to jelly. 
 
 THRESHER. 
 
 High words, indeed, for rats to speak ! 
 r thought at most they could but squeak. 
 You must be leader of the throng 
 That 's troubled me so much and long. 
 By night I hear you, on my bed, 
 Chase one another overhead, 
 And rattle up and down the wall 
 Some plunder to your dens to haul ; 
 And in my barns the live-long day. 
 You waste my precious grain away. 
 
 RAT. 
 
 You 've little charity, I see, 
 
 For such a needy wretch as me. 
 
 I taste your grain a little, true ; 
 
 'T is quite as good for me as you ; 
 
 And it 's the fashion now-days, neighbor. 
 
 To get a living without labor. 
 
 THRESHER. 
 
 You have more brass, conceited knave, 
 In your old phiz, than thieves should have ; 
 Think you I '11 harvest corn and wheat 
 For miserable rats to eat ? 
 Look at the ant, that toils and strives, 
 And on her own exertion lives ; 
 
THE THRESHER AND THE RAT. 101 
 
 Look at the bees, wee, busy things, 
 That make a food that 's fit for kings ; 
 Look at your cousin in the bushes, 
 He is content with grass and rushes ; 
 The prowling fox, that now and then 
 Comes to my yard and steals a hen. 
 Would say jou were of rogues the chief; 
 The skunk would spurn you for a thief. 
 
 RAT. 
 
 Look here ! if preaching is your object, 
 
 I '11 show you more important subject : 
 
 Now did it never strike your mind 
 
 That there are rats among mankind ? 
 
 The rat of human-kind, you see, 
 
 In form is different from me ; 
 
 He stands six feet, or less, or more ; 
 
 Walks on two feet, instead of four ; 
 
 Wears a fine coat with pendent tail, 
 
 With 'pockets in it, — where I fail ; 
 
 Has hands whose single grasp can seize 
 
 More than my twelve-month's bread and cheese ; 
 
 And, to crown all, his Maker kind 
 
 Gives him a shrewd, discerning mind, 
 
 All his base life, on earth to find 
 
 Bye-paths through which to seek his leaven, 
 
 And dream of rat-holes, too, in heaven. 
 
 Now, sir, your eyes are oped, I wis ; 
 
 ' Look on this pfcture, and on this;^ 
 
 And, on the whole, you must opine 
 
 His breed is worse, by far, than mine. 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE HABP AND PLOW. 
 
 THRESHER. 
 
 All true, old rat ! thou speakest sense I 
 Fill once thy maw, and get thee hence ; 
 For since thy wit has cooled my cholerj 
 I would not harm thee for a dollar. 
 
 RAT. 
 
 Nay, goodman, hear me till I 've done^ 
 
 Then, if you 're willing, I will run. 
 
 Some human rats, of whom I speak. 
 
 The garner of your nation seek ; 
 
 They talk about the public good, 
 
 As those who gull the public should ; 
 
 Line well their nests with ' Biddle's rags,' 
 
 Filch from the people's money-bags, 
 
 And then, to hide the thefts they 've made,. 
 
 With law and logic make parade ; 
 
 Call a sham court ; put in the chair 
 
 Some ancient rat of presence rare, 
 
 Whose views of justice and intention 
 
 Are past all common comprehension ; 
 
 Whose verdicts, ninety in a hundred, 
 
 Are to the public never rendered. 
 
 Or some old rat, benignly feeling, 
 
 To give the rest more chance for stealing, 
 
 Slips quietly among some cargo 
 
 That puts to sea without emb^Prgo, 
 
 And on a foreign shore arrives. 
 
 With spoils to last him while he lives. 
 
THE THRESHER AND THE RAT. 103 
 
 In short, they live so free and easy, 
 That thoughts of envy often tease me ; 
 For when, like me, in theft detected. 
 They sneak aside, and live respected. 
 
 I would proceed, and tell you more. 
 How at the sanctuary door 
 These precious rats sometimes go in 
 With pious horror, feigned, for sin, 
 And there for hapless sinners groan. 
 Whom they 've dissected to the bone. 
 
 I could dilate for full an hour, 
 
 To tell you how they get at power ; 
 
 How scrambling o'er the backs of fools. 
 
 They use the willing dupes for tools, 
 
 And dig their way through virtuous worth, 
 
 And trample genius in the earth, 
 
 Till puffed with spoils, and damned with fame. 
 
 True rats in everything but name. 
 
 I 'd tell you all ; but this must do. 
 For I perceive I 'm hindering you ; 
 But when at night you hear us run. 
 Think of the gang at Washington ; 
 And rack your powers of invention 
 For traps to hold them in detention ; 
 And when for us you 'd call the cat, 
 Call Sootie for the human rat. 
 
 The rat, no more with speech inspired. 
 Now turned, and sudderily retired. 
 
TO A RED SQUIRREL, 
 
 BARKING AT ME WHILE PASSING THROUGH A WOOD. 
 
 Good conscience ! what can be the matter, 
 To call forth such an awful clatter ! 
 Dost think that I am come to scatter 
 
 Salt on thy tail ? 
 About thy head and ears to patter 
 
 The leaden hail? 
 
 You don't insinuate, I hope, 
 I'm some defaulter on the slope? 
 Or some poor brain-bewildered mope 
 
 Whom you can hector ? 
 One thing is sure, — there 's no * soft soap' 
 
 About your lecture. 
 
 Just stop awhile your saucy din, 
 And think about the heinous sin 
 Of judging people, kith nor kin, 
 
 Before you know them ; 
 If thoughts are in your squirrel skin, 
 
 Then you may show them. 
 
 How many, blest with reason's light. 
 Have passed wrong judgment at first sight, 
 
TO A RED SQUIRREL. 105 
 
 And poured unwittingly theirspite 
 
 Where least deserved, 
 
 And fawned on those who from the right 
 Have basely swerved ! 
 
 With lies, poor Kit, I will not cheat thee ; 
 The time has been when thus to meet me 
 Were to meet death : but now I '11 treat thee 
 
 Just as one should, 
 That oft hereafter I may greet thee 
 
 Here in the wood. 
 
 You seem to feel quite safe ; — you are ; 
 I would not harm of thee a hair ; 
 But I 've a word or two to spare 
 
 By way of stricture ; 
 Of impudence thou art a rare 
 
 And striking picture ! 
 
 Take my advice ; don't imitate 
 The human race at such a rate ! 
 Your consequence may e'en be great, 
 
 Though one must doubt it ; 
 For man, like thee, may storm and prate, 
 
 Yet be without it. 
 
 Could he who speaks for Bunkum stand 
 And hear thee rate and reprimand ! 
 His frothy speeches sagely planned. 
 
 You 'd plainly show him ; 
 He fills with nonsense all the land, — 
 
 You fill my poem. 
 
THE TROUT UPON THE SHALLOWS. 
 
 One mora I strayed the brook beside, 
 Where leafless stood the willows, 
 
 And looking in the stream I spied 
 A trout upon the shallows. 
 
 It writhed, it struggled, and it turned ; 
 
 In vain its fins were flying ; 
 The kindling sun in heaven burned — 
 
 The hapless fish was dying. 
 
 So musingly I passed along. 
 
 With feelings touched with pity ; 
 
 And pity lastly moved a song. 
 And moral marked the ditty : 
 
 When man on pleasure's stream sets sail, 
 And fortune blows her bellows, 
 
 How soon the fickle stream may fail 
 And leave him on the shallows ! 
 
THE TROUT UPON THE SHALLOWS. 107 
 
 When riches leave their owners here, 
 
 And vanish like the swallows. 
 How many buy the knowledge dear 
 
 That wealth is full of shallows ! 
 
 When politicians prate and preach, 
 
 And office-taking follows, 
 Too late * the people' see their speech 
 
 Was babbled over shallows. 
 
 When zeal expires that used to burn. 
 
 And hearts grow cold and callous, 
 How often are we pained to learn 
 
 Religion has its shallows ! 
 
 Then some with bards and wits would vie ; — 
 Poor, thoughtless, brainless fellows ; 
 
 How oft before their ink is dry 
 They 're fast upon the shallows ! 
 
 And, reader, hast thou seen a man 
 
 Expire upon the gallows ? 
 'T was just, perhaps, but justice can 
 
 And justice does have shallows. 
 
 What hideous vice concealed from view. 
 
 In wealth and honor wallows, 
 Which, giving justice half its due, 
 
 Would wriggle on the shallows ! 
 
POTATOES. 
 
 Reader, when thro' the country going 
 You 've, doubtless, seen potatoes growing. 
 And when the frosts of autumn cold 
 Have nipp'd the grass and bound the mould, 
 Stripp'd trees like spars bereft of rigging, — 
 Doubtless you 've seen potatoe-digging. 
 
 ! ye, who drive some useful trade, 
 Yet long the farmer's life to lead, 
 Because in some wee patch of ground, 
 Hemm'd in by walls and buildings round, 
 You make it pastime with the hoe 
 To spend an odd half hour, or so, 
 And boast your skill to raise tomatoes, — 
 Turn out one day and dig potatoes ! 
 Wind, dead north pole ! and you may hear 
 Cool Boreas purring in your ear ; 
 Divided, your opinion lingers 
 'Twixt itching nose and dirty fingers 
 As from the fountain of your brain 
 The sap drips like the sugar rain ; 
 
POTATOES. 109 
 
 And when in order to reflect 
 Should you your aching spine erect, 
 Then envy not the crow that flies 
 Bowhng along the windy skies, 
 Or, tacking in the current, scuds 
 To the lee side of sheltering woods ; 
 But still if farmer's life you covet, 
 Think ' what is truth,' and say you love it. 
 
 Potatoes ! who would ever dream 
 Of winning bays with such a theme ! 
 'T were vain to try, I'd surely think it. 
 Unless with something one could link it, — 
 Something that should throughout the whole 
 Pervade the body with a soul. 
 So briefly then to join, I '11 try, 
 Potatoes and humanity. 
 
 Potatoes ! true the theme is homely, 
 But there are others far less comely ; 
 Nor do I care how critics thwack me 
 Since Paul himself will kindly back me.* 
 
 First, note this sober looking fellow, 
 His color of a dingy yellow ; 
 Rough his exterior, you see, 
 But, for all that, give him to me. 
 Nature has booked him ' No. One ;' 
 A little cooking and he 's done. 
 
 * 1st Cor. 15th, 47th, first clause. 
 10 
 
110 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 The staff of life is wrap'd within 
 This honest old potatoe's skin, 
 And wheresoever you may meet him 
 You '11 love him well enough to eat him. 
 
 Now, reader, have you never seen 
 An awkward, country lad, and green, 
 Raised like this root, we have in hand, 
 In some lone spot on mountain land, 
 Or by some brook, whose brawlings never 
 Have magnified it to a river ? — 
 Yes, you have seen, if you were looking. 
 This raw one go abroad for cooking. 
 His innate worth becoming known. 
 Transformed somewhat you 've seen him grown 
 The outer man brushed up a little, 
 But furbished bright the native mettle ; 
 His story told, his praises sung. 
 Himself the theme of every tongue ; 
 In halls of lore and halls of state 
 He 's fed the learned and the great ; 
 At every board a welcome guest, — - 
 And when he 's gone, like all the rest. 
 How often is he brought to mind, 
 A very jewel of his kind 1 
 
 Well, to proceed : — here is another. 
 But totally unlike his brother. 
 Despite his size and aspect good, 
 This one is scarcely fit for food. 
 Great tales were told about his birth 
 Far o'er the sea in foreign earth : 
 
POTATOES. Ill 
 
 A farmer prince, somewhere, 't was said, 
 Some sage experiments had made 
 Upon the root of which I sing, 
 And at the last produced this thing ; 
 And, thereupon, to give it fame, 
 Baptized it with his princely name. 
 The story took ; the roots were sold ; 
 E'en Yankee farmers, shrewd and old, 
 Astonished at their wondrous yield, 
 Set Rohans growing in their field. 
 
 Dear reader, when you chance to see 
 A boaster of his pedigree, 
 Thinking for grandeur's lord to pass, 
 When you can see he 's but an ass ; 
 Whene'er you see a preference given 
 O'er native yeast to foreign leaven ; 
 Whene'er a humbug buzzes round 
 And fain would light upon your ground, 
 Hit it with Rohans on the sconce. 
 And that will settle it at once. 
 
 Last, see these little dirty pellets, 
 Scarcely the size of musket bullets. 
 In vain to say that weeds o'ertopp'd them. 
 Or summer's drouth from growing stopp'd them, 
 Or, were they tended with more care. 
 They might have been potatoes rare. — 
 Such logic 's vain ; there ever will 
 Be small potatoes in the hill. 
 
112 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Reader, again, whene'er you find 
 Men of great words and little mind. 
 Whose dim ideas chime and jingle 
 Like small potatoes on a shingle ; 
 Whene'er you see a lazy fellow, 
 Not wholly soft, but partly mellow, 
 Who for a time foregoes his ration 
 Yet boasts his grog-shop graduation ; 
 Recounts his drunken frolics rare. 
 And thinks that sober people are 
 For these, and for reform, his debtors^ 
 And he a Cicera in letters ; — 
 Whene'er you see a Miller wise 
 Who grinds out scripture prophecies, 
 And sifts out, as he would the bran, 
 What mortal never could, nor can ; — 
 When you see saints, selfnamed, self holj^ 
 Expecting to ascend to glory. 
 When tenfold easier would soar 
 Your hardship in a cart and four ; — - 
 Whene'er you see an office-seeker 
 Acting the part of public teacher^ 
 Condemning in rhetoric treasures 
 The other party's ways and measures ; 
 Showing such evils were because 
 You did not let Mm make the laws ; — ■ 
 Whene'er you see a zealot wise 
 Mangling God's word before your eyes ; 
 One who mistook an owlet's screech 
 For call from Zion's Head to preach j— 
 
POTATOES. 113 
 
 Fair-weather sailors when you spy ; 
 Brave fellows if no storm be nigh, 
 When e'en make mention of a gale, 
 And, lo ! the tars have lowered sail ; — 
 Blank-cartridge soldiers, none the bolder 
 For the bright gun upon their shoulder ; 
 And generals full of martial bluster 
 To face the awful scenes of — muster ; — 
 Whenever, I again repeat, 
 With all this sort of thing you meet, 
 The fittest emblem you may find 
 Potatoes of the smallest kind. 
 
 10* 
 
TO AN OLD PAIR OF BREECHES. 
 
 Adieu ! past all redemption torn ! 
 The brunt of service you have borne 
 Bravely and long, and well have worn 
 
 Your seams and stitches ; 
 But now your latter end I mourn. 
 
 My veteran breeches. 
 
 I call to mind when thou wert new, 
 Your nap was smooth, and bright your hue 
 Of colors best, — the steadfast blue ; 
 
 With secret fears 
 I take the retrospective view ; 
 
 And all appears ! 
 
 I cannot wear you more ; 0, no ! 
 I may not such exposure show 
 As long-eared beast, long time ago. 
 
 In lion's skin ; 
 That skin was rent, we know, and, lo ! 
 
 The ass within. 
 
TO AN OLD PAIE OF BREECHES. 115 
 
 'T is hard to cast you by, — 't is sad ; 
 A better pair was never had 
 Than were you when at first you clad 
 Your lord and master ; 
 But then your present case is bad, — 
 0, dire disaster ! 
 
 Yes, made to wear, and not to sell. 
 You kept together long and well ; 
 And when, at last, you failed — ! tell, 
 
 Were you misused ? 
 I stood astonished for ' a spell,' 
 
 And back-ward mused. 
 
 Your comely front your owner's care 
 Preserved in aspect good and fair ; 
 The tooth of time 't would even dare 
 
 Another year ; 
 When fiercely fell old Wear-and-tear 
 Upon the rear. 
 
 But never mind ; all things must fail, 
 Both mind and matter, head and tail; 
 And since your case is past all bail 
 
 By ' sharps' and shears, 
 'T is useless longer to bewail 
 
 Your rent arrears. 
 
TO MY OLD DOG. 
 
 " He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke 
 As ever lap a sheugh or dyke ; 
 His breest was white, his towsie back 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 His gaucie tail wi' upward curl 
 Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl." 
 
 The Tiva Dogs. 
 
 Some venal bards indite the lay 
 To such themes only as will ]pay ; 
 Some, fawning round a patron, play 
 
 Self-praising airs ; — 
 Since ' every dog must have his day,' 
 
 These must have theirs. 
 
 * "In looking over my MSS., this rainy day, I encountered the 
 following poem, written years ago, — one of my earliest productions, 
 and never published. ' Love me, love my dog,' says the old adage. 
 It may be that the subject-matter of the verse will suit the case oi 
 some of your country-boy readers j or of some brother farmer, who, 
 like myself, delights occasionally in looking back upon ' dog and gun' 
 days." — The Author to the Editor of the Nerv England Farmer, Nov. 
 15,1851. 
 
 I 
 
TO MY OLD DOG. 117 
 
 For me, friend of my boyhood's days, 
 Grrown gray in following my ways, 
 Though surely not a theme for lays 
 
 Of lofty chime, 
 I '11 give thee all the hearty praise 
 
 Of dog-ve] rhyme. 
 
 Though old, decrepit, deaf and blind, 
 I can look back and call to mind 
 The days when one might search and find, 
 
 The county through, 
 
 No dog more trusty, true and kind, 
 
 Old Beau, than you ! 
 
 Few dogs your aptness have outdone ; 
 You knew all tackle of the gun ; 
 Ball, pouch, or horn shown you, each one 
 
 A whine exacted ; 
 The gun itself would make you run 
 
 Almost distracted. 
 
 When hunting, if no luck had we, 
 Though famous your veracity, 
 I 've known you feign some game to ' tree,' 
 
 And coolly bark, 
 When fancy even could not see 
 
 Aught for a mark. 
 
 Whene'er with rod and Hne and hook 
 I strayed a-fishing down the brook, 
 
118 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 You crept behind with knowing look, 
 And watched the line ; 
 
 And when the spangled trout I took, 
 Mj joy was thine. 
 
 When furry game my notice drew, 
 Low by the bank where alders grew 
 I set the trap wherever you 
 
 Appeared most willing, 
 And in the morning well I knew 
 
 I 'd make a shilling. 
 
 And when the corn we gathered in. 
 Turning the stooks with rustling din, 
 The rat, o'er taken in his sin, 
 
 Paid dear for stealing ; 
 One shake, and he with ragged skin, 
 
 Was past all feeling. 
 
 Your strength and courage balanced well, 
 Though sometimes you would whine and yell 
 When 'mongst bad company you fell, 
 
 Like honest Tray, — 
 Till I ' maun interfere mysel', 
 
 As Burns would say. 
 
 For your repute I 've been afraid 
 When you some prank of folly play'd. 
 Or when, by way of serenade. 
 
 In dog-day weather, 
 The distant moon you 've idly bayed, 
 For hours together. 
 
TO MY OLD DOG. 119 
 
 Some few of all your tricks were vile, 
 But these showed frankness without guile ; 
 And yet with modesty meanwhile 
 
 You ne'er was gifted ; 
 E'en Sundays, in the church broad-isle, 
 
 The leg you 've lifted. 
 
 With other dogs you 'd hold a caucus, 
 And snuff and growl and raise a fracas. 
 Till kicked by him who acted Janus 
 
 From out the meeting ; 
 For sore with laughter it did shake us 
 
 To see your greeting. 
 
 Your share of ills you 've had to bide ; 
 You wear a bullet in your side, 
 And many scars that seam your hide 
 
 Your conflicts tell ; 
 Some sort of colic once you tried 
 Sorely, but well. 
 
 You 've something like the asthma, too ; 
 But few more ills will trouble you ; 
 With life you 've gotten nearly through. 
 
 Its joy and pain ; 
 Of all your puppy brethren few 
 
 Or none remain. 
 
 But never shall I want a friend 
 As long as you can snuff the wind ; 
 
120 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 And when your honest life shall end, 
 My ancient brave, 
 
 Yonder, where purple poke-weeds bend, 
 Shall be your grave. 
 
 And when, from hunting, passing by 
 Your resting-place, I '11 linger nigh ; . 
 The thundering volley where you lie 
 Shall tell your spirit 
 That still your master has an eye 
 To all your merit. 
 
A " MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM." 
 
 TOLD FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE SCALY HEARER. 
 
 'T WAS nightfall on a summer's day 
 When Sirius holds a baneful sway ; 
 When thunder-gusts full frequent fly 
 And wrathful thro' the sultry sky ; 
 When sudden showers of roaring rain 
 Dash drenching o'er the stubble plain ; 
 Or sheeting mists forbear to dry 
 The stooks of weather-blackened rye ; 
 And Phoebus seems to loose his power 
 To shine unclouded for an hour ; 
 When farmers, vexed with ' horrors' never, 
 Will gloomy visions have, if ever, — 
 The scene occurred which I disclose. 
 Believe or not, just as you choose. 
 
 Intent the silver-eel to take, 
 I hied me to a neighboring lake. 
 An old tree root, the winds had felled, 
 My form in careless posture held ; 
 And smothered in a tempting show, 
 I cast the baited hook below. 
 11 
 
122 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 The dripping moon,* night's ancient daughter, 
 Just looked upon the sleeping water 
 Thro' rifted clouds, then like a ghost 
 Fled, in the closing blackness lost. 
 
 There long I sat, unthinking quite, 
 And heard the ' voices of the night :' 
 Sounds which might puzzle one to tell 
 Who made them all, this side of hell ; 
 Musquetoes, whose dehghtful buzz 
 Might e'en provoke the man of Uz ; 
 Bull-frogs, grum base and barytone. 
 The drowsy pur-r, and doleful groan ; 
 While from the top of neighboring tree 
 An owlet whined a symphony — 
 Such sounds, too, as, I am thinking, 
 Set your fisherman to ivmking^ 
 For music, tho' it opes the ears. 
 Oft shuts the eyes of him who hears. 
 
 All on a sudden, as we say. 
 Just along shore a little way. 
 Reclined upon the sloping bank. 
 Appeared a figure, long and lank. 
 He held a rod of extra length, 
 Made less for beauty than for strength ; 
 
 * A sign of rainy weather in New England, derived from the an?, 
 cient Indian tribes, is the appearance of the new moon, viz : when il^ 
 horns are blunt, and its shape is such (to use the Indian expression} 
 that it will not " hold water." 
 
A '' midsummer-night's dream.'' 123 
 
 It had a gallows look about it ; 
 
 (You should have seen it if you doubt it.) 
 
 His line was such another cord 
 
 As he used who betrayed his Lord, 
 
 And such as hangmen now-days use 
 
 To knot the ignominious noose. 
 
 His hook, e'en in the gloom of night, 
 
 Shone with peculiar auric light ; 
 
 No hollow tinsel of the tinner, 
 
 But SOLID GOLD, as I 'm a sinner ! 
 
 For baits he used as many kinds 
 
 As were his fish of different minds ; 
 
 (Not that small fry have minds, but then 
 
 What may he use who catches men .^) 
 
 Beside him stood a basket large 
 
 And black as hold of charcoal barge, 
 
 And thro' its sooty meshes steamed 
 
 Sulphureous fumes that lurid gleamed ! 
 
 0, for a sheet of heavy fold, 
 As strong as trunk of oak unrolled ! 
 0, that a pen of mountain pine, 
 And strength to wield the same were mine ! 
 And ink black-mixed in vasty tub. 
 To write the name of Beelzebub/ 
 For who else could that being be 
 Seen angling then and there by me ? 
 
 Sweet friend, what would have been your case 
 That night, had you been in my place ? 
 
124 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Instead of facing your old master. 
 Your coward shanks would borne you faster^ 
 And not the less against your will 
 Than ran the rogues at Springfield hill.* 
 Methought I 'd stay awhile and watch 
 To see what sort of fry he 'd catch ; 
 Without the power, if not the wish, 
 To spare you from the list of fisL 
 
 He tied a rag of super cloth 
 With shining web of silken moth 
 Around his hook, and thus equipped 
 His line within the flood he dipped. 
 But scarce his hook was out of sighl 
 Before, it seemed, he felt a bite ; 
 And drawing up again his line, 
 His luck proved better much than mine. 
 One thing was something strange to see i 
 As soon as e'er his fish were free 
 From out the water, they appeared 
 No more the finny things he reared ; 
 But metamorphosed seemed the creatures 
 To human forms with human features » 
 
 The fish now dangling on his string 
 Was but a brainless trifling thing 
 Such as along a city's walks 
 With consequential bearing stalks ; 
 
 * The discomfiture of the rebels during the Shays insurrection at 
 the arsenal hill in Springfield. The story is told of one man who ran 
 thirty miles, with only an occasional stopping to take breath. 
 
A " midsummer-night's dream." 125 
 
 Who owes to tailors' arts and dresses, 
 The consequence that he possesses ; 
 And lisping tells liis brother asses 
 How he disdains the ' lower classes.' 
 Nick merely deigned this word on him 
 Of smirking face and puny limb : — 
 ' I only want your body, Zany ; 
 Prime souls are scarce — you have n't any.'* 
 For as he looked upon his face 
 He knew the worthless minim dace 
 Was only fit for making bait ; 
 And so consigned him to his fate. 
 Upon his hook he kept the wi'etch, 
 And cast, another fisli to catch. 
 
 A greedy pike was ..darting by, 
 With hungry jaw and eager eye ; 
 He saw the game on which to sup. 
 And in a moment snatched it up. 
 Nick with the barb-inflicting twitch 
 Took in his gills a cruel stitch ; 
 And as he seized the vav'nous pike. 
 In tone of voice not much unlike 
 The sound of saw-mill in full motion, 
 He thus accused him of devotion : 
 
 ' Give us your hand, my old flint-skinner ! 
 Don't feign surprise, my hopeful sinner ! 
 We've partners been these many years, 
 And now we '11 settle your arrears. 
 Your credit is so poor of late 
 Not even I can longer wait ; 
 11* 
 
126 THE HARP AND PLOW, 
 
 Besides, you 've aped me in my power^ 
 
 By seeking whom you might devour ; 
 
 You 've wronged the poor man of his rights ; 
 
 You 've robbed the widow of her mites ; 
 
 You 've often watched, as now, to catch 
 
 Some silly addle-headed wretch 
 
 More flush of money than of brains. 
 
 And turned his pockets for your gains ; 
 
 In all your deal and all your diction 
 
 The truth was stranger far than fiction^ 
 
 But tho' mankind were gulled by you ; 
 
 One thing is sure, I 've got my due. 
 
 He said, and with infernal grin 
 
 His basket ope'd, and thrust him in. 
 
 I noticed as the hd he raised, 
 
 The brimstone flame beneath it blazed I 
 
 A hull'liead was the next he took. 
 The groper bit the naked hook I 
 Old Satan grinned another smile. 
 And thus delighted him awhile : 
 
 ' Old churl, I know you to the letter ! 
 Yon, too, are pretty deep my debtor ; 
 A writing for your soul 1 hold. 
 The price of which was paid in gold ; 
 But you were made of horse-leech stuff, 
 And never knew you had enough. 
 But you must cry for more, until 
 It 's my belief you '11 get your fill. 
 What now avails your hoarded wealth ? 
 By meanness yours if not by stealth. 
 
A "midsummer-night's dream." 127 
 
 What now avails your sneaking life, 
 Grudging your worthless self and wife 
 The necessary cost of living, 
 And knowing no such word as giving f 
 If aught you 'd had to pay for breath 
 Long since you would have choked to death. 
 Faith ! you 're too mean for me to take you ; 
 But yet I must, and I will bake you !' 
 He spoke, and 'neath the basket lid 
 The poor old selfish miser hid. 
 
 With Bible leaves he baited next, 
 Well filled with many a pious text. 
 An eel observed the piece of writ 
 And quick enough he swallowed it ; 
 Which done, he thought to bolt away ; 
 But Beelze thought he 'd better stay. 
 
 ' You slippery dog !' quoth he, ' I knew 
 What baits of all best suited you. 
 I 've seen you often read the hook^ 
 In sack-cloth garb with solemn look ; 
 But never saw you read alone — 
 'T was when some one was looking on. 
 I 've minded you full oft at meeting. 
 To give you there a hearty greeting ; 
 I 've heard you with lip-service pray 
 The devil's kingdom might decay, 
 But I 've to thank you for your zeal 
 Foremost in furthering my weal ; 
 
128 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 I've seen you grieve for negroes' woes 
 While the poor beast beneath your blows 
 Has cried like Balaam's ass aloud, 
 Below your cruel burdens bowed 1 
 I 've seen you give to build a church 
 Enough to freight a bark of birch, 
 And have it blazoned in the papers 
 To hide your mean deceitful capers ; 
 But when your washerwoman came, 
 With hard work and rheumatics lame, 
 Begg'd her bill cashed, with tale of sorrow, 
 You 've bid her call again to-morrow ; 
 Put on your specs and scan'd it o'er, 
 And swore as Peter never swore. — 
 No mistress Potiphar could slur you, 
 Indignant at your stalwart virtue ; 
 Chaste Joseph's story, let me mention, 
 Was quite beyond your comprehension. 
 For had you his temptation known, 
 Your ' garment' still had been your own. 
 I '11 toast you on my three-tined spit, 
 You sweet, old, precious hypocrite !' 
 The wretch, with loud heart-rending screech 
 Was soon beyond all pity's reach ! 
 
 Then with another smile infernal 
 The devil took a certain Journal 
 And fixed it on his hook for bait ; 
 Nor did he long for nibblers wait. 
 One of those things which wear a shell, 
 That half their time in water dwell — 
 
A "midsummer-night's dream." 129 
 
 The snapping hind, famed for their spite, 
 Was nothing loath, it seemed, to bite. 
 As soon as e'er it came afloat. 
 Behold, it wore a petticoat ! 
 There was no sweet expression tender 
 By which to designate her gender, 
 And nothing but the coats she wore 
 Removed my doubtings on that score. 
 
 * Madam, I hope you 're well to-night !' 
 Cried Sootie, as she hove in sight ; 
 ' But you must know that moral journal 
 Is what I wish to have diurnal. 
 And o'er the country wide extend, 
 For I 'm the gainer in the end.' 
 
 Her face with ire began to bleach ; 
 Quoth she, ' For you that 's pretty speech ! 
 If you 're a ' nigger,' — as your hue 
 Of sooty black betokens you, — 
 You 're quite famihar let me tell you ; 
 Your distance keep ere I compel you ! 
 My talk about man's brotherhood 
 May for profession all be good, 
 But practice goes another gait, — 
 A nigger my associate !' 
 
 Just then thoughts of a different kind 
 Seemed suddenly to cross her mind. 
 And she went on in tone more civil : 
 ' It may be, though, that you 're the devil ; 
 
130 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 What business, pray, have you with me ? 
 
 We surely cannot disagree. 
 
 Have n't I left my proper sphere 
 
 To spread my scandals far and near ? 
 
 Loft my ' old man,' I swore to cherish, 
 
 To cold potatoes or to perish ? 
 
 My poor neglected brats forsaken 
 
 Till you 've apprenticed them, and taken ? 
 
 Have I not fired with zealous rage 
 
 To hear rebuke from some old sage, 
 
 Or read the apostolic page ? 
 
 Sought out each fire-and-tow convention 
 
 Fierce for polemics and contention ? 
 
 Have I not ever cast aloof 
 
 Instruction and ' despised reproof,' 
 
 And as a consequence, you see, 
 
 Been full of general deviltry ? 
 
 And now is this the way it ends ? 
 
 Is this the way you ' back your friends V 
 
 ' Softly, my dear,' observed old Sootie, 
 And seized the bold unblushing beauty ; 
 ' You 've done all this, I '11 not deny — 
 Or rather it was you and I. 
 Some things you 've done in boiling blood, 
 And thought that you was doing good ; 
 • But let me whisper in your ear. 
 Your mind was very far from clear. 
 Ignorance of the law, we read, 
 Is no excuse for evil deed ; 
 
A "midsummer-night's dream." 131 
 
 And since you 're fond of so much fire^ 
 You shall have more than you desire. 
 I'll show you where we keep it bright 
 And never rake it up at night ; 
 And you shall fill a cozy nitch in 
 The pot-hook ward of my back -kitchen.' 
 
 One thing was certain, if not pretty : 
 The woman-fish seemed far most gritty ; 
 But zeal is woful without knowledge, 
 In man or woman, cot or college. 
 
 Old Nick got up and took his spawn, 
 And in a thunder-peal was gone ! 
 It fairly made the tree roots shake, 
 And stirred the water in the lake. 
 Some eel^ I found, had got my line ; 
 No longer was the tackle mine ; 
 And as the plashing drops descended, 
 Waking, my homeward way I wended. 
 I '11 go and give those fish a warning. 
 Thought I, as soon as dawns the morning ; 
 And tell them, ere it is too late. 
 Be careful how they take the bait. 
 The hook will prick them, bye and bye. 
 And Satan then will have a fry. 
 And you, good soul, for whom I write, 
 Think of the fish were caught that night ! 
 
EPISTLE TO A DISTINGUISHED FRIEND. 
 
 You ask me if I never feel 
 A sadness o'er mj spirit steal, 
 
 A sort of nameless grief ? 
 My honored friend, an answer true 
 I '11 render, and will hint to you 
 
 An inkling of relief: 
 
 A sadness o'er my spirit comes 
 
 At times, and shrouds it with the glooms 
 
 Of moonless, starless night ; 
 I take a durk prophetic ken, 
 And envy gropers amongst men 
 
 Who never miss the light. 
 
 Remembered scenes, remembered words 
 A sudden thrill of mem'ry's chords, 
 
 Ope to this sombre page ; 
 One feels what he cannot portray, 
 But just contents himself to say, 
 
 * Gone is the golden age !' 
 
EPISTLE TO A DISTINGUISHED FRIEND 133 
 
 How tlioughtless some of Adam's race ! 
 Content their daily round to trace, 
 
 The present is their all ; 
 They move on one dead level line, 
 Move, live, and die, and ' make no sign ;' 
 
 They neither climb nor — fall. 
 
 And yet, compared with him they 're blest, 
 Whose spirit never is at rest. 
 
 Whose game is high and low ; 
 Whose heart's a harp of many strings 
 From which life's every action brings 
 
 The notes of joy or woe. 
 
 We read that David in his haste 
 Called all men liars ; haste at least 
 
 May be to me imputed ; 
 If just to live and eat and drink 
 Is to be blest, we 'd better think 
 
 E'en brutes divinely suited. 
 
 Now, friend, if honors and a name, 
 If joys of home and bays of fame, 
 
 Still leave you a ' plucked pigeon ;' 
 Permit me, drawing to a close. 
 To recommend for your repose 
 
 A trial of religion. 
 12 
 
134 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 The truly pious man is blest ; 
 
 To him life's storms that us molest 
 
 Are harmless in their fury ; 
 Each trial he 's prepared to face, 
 Faith sits, the judge, upon his case, 
 
 Hope's angels are his jury. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Beneath the verdant turf and valley's clod, 
 From all the toils of life she slumbers well ; 
 
 But in the bosom of her Father, God, 
 
 And in our faithful hearts she still shall dwelL 
 
FAREWELL TO THE VALLEY. 
 
 WRITTEN IN PROSPECT OP IMMEDIATE DEPARTURE. 
 
 Scenes of my childhood, loved and dear ! 
 
 Incentives fond of memory ! 
 Sweet in the greenly budding year, 
 
 Joyous in vernal melody ! 
 Fate, iron-hearted, bids me fly ; 
 
 Who at his mandate may rebel ? 
 With swelling heart and tearful eye 
 
 I pause to take a sad farewell. 
 
 Your floods, Connecticut, adieu ! 
 
 Your torrent's solemn, ceaseless roar. 
 What blissful moments I review 
 
 Along your winding, woody shore ! 
 How oft beneath umbrageous elm. 
 
 There wandering, I have paused to rest, 
 And seen the verge of fairy realm 
 
 Mirrored within thy trembling breast ! 
 
 Farewell, sweet ever-flowing brook, 
 From winter's frigid fetters clear ; 
 
 I give thee now a parting look, 
 I lend a tributary tear. 
 
136 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 The years to me that careful grow, 
 Thy careless murmTirs still prolong ; 
 
 Could he that muses o'er thy flow, 
 Awake with thee undying song I 
 
 Farewell dear hamlet of my own, 
 
 Endeared by every tender tie ; 
 Oft shalt thou give to memory tone 
 
 When weary leagues between us lie ! 
 Farewell the social hearth where Love, 
 
 A heaven-commissioned angel came, — 
 Strong as the faith can mountains move,* 
 
 Warm as the crepitating flame. 
 
 With heart-felt grief, farewell my friends ! 
 
 Oft such we hailed ; as such we part ; 
 If parting to life's verge extends, 
 
 Till then my hand — yea, more, my heart ; 
 Farewell my foes, if such there be, 
 
 For I myself am foe to none ; 
 If any would have injured me, 
 
 They 've failed in what they would have done. 
 
 Sweet valley of my birth, adieu ! 
 
 The cradle of my rustic muse ; 
 And shall a bard departing now, 
 
 The tribute of a lay refuse ? 
 As soon might Phoebus yield to night 
 
 When glowing high at Summer's noon ! 
 
 * Matthew xxi chapter, 21 verse. 
 
FAREWELL TO THE VALLEY. 137 
 
 As soon his brilliant blaze of light 
 
 Eclipse the pale-faced midnight moon ! 
 
 These weary feet of mine have strayed 
 
 Before from thee a mighty -way ; 
 With Fortune's flying foot-ball played — 
 
 Myself in stranger lands astray. 
 I wist not whither I was led, 
 
 My life as changeful as a dream ; 
 Now blanket-clad and venison-fed, 
 
 My drink the Indian-haunted stream. 
 
 Anon my home a crowded street, 
 
 Tamed to a city's dust and noise. 
 Where soul is lost in vain conceit, 
 
 And pride the nobler man destroys. 
 And if thy wandering son has seen 
 
 Sights which might gladden one to see. 
 Or brighter climes attractive been, 
 
 Fain would he dwell, dear vale, in thee. 
 
 Give to the son of nature wild 
 
 The romance of the mighty West ; 
 Give to the fop — the name of child; 
 
 Give sumptuous viands to the guest ; 
 Give to the brave, adventurous tar 
 
 The boisterous music of the sea ; 
 But shine for once, propitious star. 
 
 And give my valley-home to me ! 
 
 *12 
 
138 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Scenes of my childhood, loved and dear ! 
 
 Fast imaged on my memory ! 
 All sweetly glimmering thro' a tear, 
 
 Enchanting now with melody ; 
 Fate, with harsh mandate, bids me fly ; 
 
 With stern resolve I nerve my mind ; 
 There is a Power that casts the die, 
 
 And to that power I 'm resigned. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A LAZY FELLOW. 
 
 If keeping Sabbaths saves the soul, 
 This man's is now in heaven; 
 
 One in the week sufficed not him — 
 He hallowed all the seven. 
 
THE MOON IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 It was a wild and far-off land 
 Where nature's savage realms expand 
 Arrayed by her primeval hand 
 
 In virgin dress ; 
 Where stretched, untouched by axe or brand, 
 
 The wilderness. 
 
 Beyond the bounds of our frontier, 
 Where Indian tribes pursue the deer, 
 And light the council-fire in fear 
 
 Of white man's face, 
 Who prowls for them and plunder near, 
 Black-souled and base ! 
 
 It was a chill December night ; 
 The ice had locked the waters tight, 
 And winter's cheerless mantle white 
 
 O'er earth was spread, 
 And nature seemed all lifeless quite — 
 
 Cold, drear, and dead. 
 
140 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 By fickle, varying fortune led, 
 Like Crusoe or the Raven-fed, 
 I spread my blanket for a bed. 
 
 But not of rest ; 
 For sleep had from my eyelids fled. 
 
 And peace, my breast. 
 
 Beneath a rattling roof I lay, 
 And thro' the walls of crannied clay 
 I heard old Boreas whistling play, 
 
 The drear hours long, 
 And shivering wished for power to stay 
 
 His fiendish song. 
 
 As if to make the scene more drear, 
 At times was wafted to my ear 
 A howl so wild and dread to hear. 
 
 Like consternation ; 
 That one who scarcely felt a fear. 
 
 Felt desolation. 
 
 Then as I turned my restless eye 
 And saw the full moon sailing high. 
 Slow thro' the wintry midnight sky, 
 
 Uprose to mind 
 Sad, bitter thoughts, and pensively 
 
 I thus repined : 
 
 Boll on, bright orb of frigid light. 
 That shinest on this cheerless night, 
 Cold splendor in thy blaze ! 
 
TUE MOO:^ IN THE WILDERNESS. 141 
 
 How ditiereut to the human race 
 May seem this night thy placid face, 
 
 And thy unwarming rays ! 
 Thou shinest on the rich and poor, 
 
 The homeless, and the home ; 
 Thy light is on the cottage door. 
 
 And on the lordly dome. 
 
 One, peering from the halls of ease, 
 Abroad thy silver splendor sees. 
 
 And calls this beauteous night ; 
 His hearth sends out a ruddy glow. 
 Mirth, wine and music round him flow, 
 He hears the bitter blasts that blow, — 
 
 They lull him with delight. 
 
 Thou seest the selfish and the vile. 
 Him whose black heart is full of guile 
 
 Tow'rd man, his brother dear ; 
 A sort of ravening human wolf. 
 More base than him whose howl aloof, 
 
 So dismal, I can hear. 
 
 And yet he wants for nought, mayhap, 
 But, pampered, sits in Comfort's lap, 
 
 And snarls with thankless scorn ; 
 Or turns his eye with envious gleam 
 On those around, whom he may deem 
 
 More blest by Plenty's horn. 
 
142 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Thou shinest on the cottage roof 
 Where avarice may find reproof ; 
 
 Its inmates lack for show, 
 And yet with sweet contentment blest, 
 Perhaps this hour they calmly rest 
 
 Without a cause for wo. 
 
 Thou look'st on my New England home. 
 Ah ! why should Fortune tempt to roam, 
 
 With falsely promised boon ; 
 Alluring on with fair display. 
 Seeming at hand, while far away 
 
 As thou art, mournful moon ! 
 E'en so the child, when in the sky 
 
 He hails thee first with joy, 
 Puts forth his hand with cheated eye, 
 
 To grasp the shining toy. 
 
 Slow down the west went coursing on 
 The moon, to leave me soon alone. 
 When Boreas in more plaintive tone 
 
 Spoke thro' the wall ; 
 I listened in the solemn moan. 
 
 An answering call : — 
 
 ' What gloomy thoughts pervade thy mind 
 Incited by the winter wind ! 
 Compare thy case, sad tho' it be. 
 To forms of sterner misery ; 
 
THE MOON IN THE WILDERNESS. 143 
 
 All have their part of ills to bear, 
 Nor deem thine own the lion's share. 
 
 ' See the poor beggar shivering lie, 
 Stretched by the cold highway to die 
 Inviting to his aged breast 
 Death's dart ; for that may give him rest. 
 
 * Hear the wrecked sailor's drowning cry. 
 Beneath some wild inclement sky. 
 
 Think w^hat despair must whelm his soul 
 As icy billows round him roll, 
 And roaring rush upon their prey, 
 From friends and country far away. 
 Think how with joy his feet would tread 
 The flooring of thy humble shed. 
 
 ' Think of the prisoner's wretched doom, 
 Pining within a dungeon's gloom ; 
 What groans bespeak his mental pains ! 
 How hopeless sound his clanking chains ! 
 Perhaps he counts the winged flight 
 Of hours that measure out the night, 
 And knows that death awaits his prey, 
 Whene'er the sun shall bring the day. 
 
 * Think of the bondman's hopeless woe ! 
 Can you his life of sorrows know ? 
 Canst feel his galling fetters weigh 
 
 Upon thy limbs so heavily ? 
 
144 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Art thou compelled to breathe his sigh 
 In vain for blessed liberty ? 
 
 ' Hear'st thou the maniac shrieking wild, 
 From reason, hope, and home exiled ; 
 Who to the freezing wintry air 
 Mutters the incoherent prayer ? 
 
 ' Think of the countless pallid train 
 This night are racked on beds of pain ? 
 Where sickness trims the feeble light 
 That glimmers thro' the weary night ? 
 Compare their hapless lot with thine, 
 And no more in dejection pine.' 
 
 I heard, and felt reproof — resolved 
 Repining thoughts to rest ; 
 
 My heart in thankfulness dissolved 
 That I so much was blest. 
 
 And then the same instructive strain 
 
 Sank to a lullahy ; 
 And when from sleep awaked again, 
 
 The sun was in the sky. 
 
THE PRAIRIE COCK. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 One day, when Spring's returning sun 
 
 Had thawed the frozen ground, 
 And made the wintry drifts to run 
 
 Dissolving round, 
 I sallied forth with shouldered gun. 
 
 For shooting bound. 
 
 Olad once to see the sun again, 
 
 And heedless where I strayed, 
 I wandered to a prairie plain, 
 
 And halting made 
 To look about, nor yet in vain 
 
 The scene surveyed. 
 
 For as I stood with ears erect, 
 And vision nowise blurred, 
 I in the distance did detect, 
 
 And plainly heard 
 The hollow voice, I did suspect. 
 
 Of prairie-bird. — 
 13 
 
146 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 (A vaunting fowl, this prairie-cock — 
 
 A vain and silly thing ; 
 But oft the hunter's skill he *11 mock 
 
 And take to wing ; 
 And from a thousand in a flock 
 
 Not one he '11 bring.) — 
 
 Thinking himself secure, no doubt, 
 
 The distance was so great, 
 The cock began to strut about 
 
 At furious rate. 
 With wings dropp'd down and tail spread out. 
 
 And step elate. 
 
 The sight was tempting for a shot — 
 
 Tho' distant, he was bold ; 
 The story, then, it matters not 
 
 How soon 't is told : 
 I sent a bullet to the spot 
 
 And laid him cold. 
 
 And as I stooped to pick him up 
 I thus soliliquized : 
 
 * Poor thing ! your overflowing cup 
 
 Was soon capsized ; 
 Upon your carcass I shall sup, 
 
 Unless surprised, 
 
 * I'll gather from this emblem small 
 
 A moral, if I may ; 
 
THE PRAIRIE COCK. 147 
 
 Thy fate reminds me of a fall 
 
 Before to-day ; — 
 
 Pride, let it tower however tall, 
 
 Must sure decay. 
 
 * How oft we mark the self-conceit 
 
 That struts and shuffles by. 
 That in the gutter of the street 
 
 Ere long may lie !' 
 Reader, ere Pride tip-toe thy feet, 
 
 Turn back and fly. 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 ON SEEING A FELLOW NODDING IN CHURCH. 
 
 f 
 
 This surely is a day of rest ; 
 
 But better you 'd improve it. 
 To sink your head upon your breast, 
 
 And cease so much to move it. 
 
THE WAY IT IS DONE. 
 
 A TALE WITH A MOKAL. 
 
 'T WAS early one morn, in a log-cabin land. 
 Where the tallest air-castles, however, are planned, 
 Where swagger is often mistaken for sense, 
 And faith is a thing of no small consecjuence. 
 I mean not that faith which is taughi in the Bible,-— 
 The backwoods professor would sue for a libel ; 
 The faith of the Book sees a mansion in heaven, 
 But this sees a town where a stake is just driven. 
 
 'T was early one morn ; 't was the fourth of July ; 
 Some time must elapse ere the sun lit the sky ; 
 And, thinking o'er night of the glorious day, 
 'T was natural my dreams, too, should wander that way. 
 So I dreamed, as a Yankee boy frequently will. 
 Of Lexington, Concord, and old Bunker Hill ; 
 Saw the red-coated column up Bunker arise ; 
 Heard old Putnam's speech 'bout the * white of their 
 eyes.' 
 
THE WAY IT IS DONE. 149 
 
 They neared the redoubt, and the guns bristled o'er ; 
 But jusfc as the Yankees their volley would pour, 
 
 Martial sounds 'gan to rise, 
 
 And I opened my eyes, 
 And thought 't was a part of the dream gone before. 
 
 But I listened, so still ; 
 
 It was not Bunker Hill, 
 But without in the street they were making uproar ; 
 
 While a man with a fife 
 
 Squealed as if for his life, 
 And a drum put in shakes Ole Bull might adore. 
 
 Sleep fled past a doubt ; so I dress'd and went out ; 
 Had you seen what I saw, you 'd have laughed with a 
 
 shout : 
 The offspring of Orpheus, blowing the fife. 
 By the ' cut of his jib,' was n't long for this life ; 
 For five feet a]fid five I should judge the utmost 
 Longitudinal metre his person could boast ; 
 But nature, kind dame, had made up, it would seem, 
 Deficit in length, by the ' breadth of his beam.' 
 His hat was ' caved in' — had of brim scarce a bit ; 
 He wore a short jacket, too small for a fit ; 
 And a ludicrous thought flitted over my mind. 
 That the fifer was very full breasted behind. 
 
 The drummer, beside him, personified Saul ; 
 As gaunt as a grey-hound, and bony, and tall. 
 
 But ever I can 
 
 Describe you this man, 
 
 13* 
 
150 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 I'll state the condition of both — that is all : 
 Though scarcely 't was mornj 
 They ^d both had their corn, 
 Were so drunk, that to stand, thej must lean on the 
 wall; 
 
 The din and devotion 
 Inspired them with motion, 
 At March 1 they would go ; but at Halt ! they would 
 sprawl. 
 
 Were I good with the charcoal, my tale I*d adorn 
 With a sketch of the drummer that auspicious morn. 
 A view of his figure — a side view- — to me 
 Looked, more than aught else, like a bad figure 3 ; 
 His hat, which had suffered, was cocked on one side ; 
 His breeks were too short, by a foot, and too wide ; 
 On the toe of his left foot, and heel c-f his right, 
 He hitched to the tune of the * Soldier's Delight.' 
 His aspect was fierce, with a sprinkling of woe^ 
 His eyes dead a-head, and his arms a-kimbo; 
 
 The poor fifer, I fear, 
 
 When he staggered too near, 
 Received from his elbows a cruel side blow ; 
 
 A pause would occur, 
 
 A trill or a slur, 
 But the roll of the drum was unbroken, I know ; 
 
 For the sticks down would come 
 
 On the head of the drum, 
 And the way rub-a-dub rattled out was n't slow. 
 
THE WAY IT IS DONE. 151 
 
 The rabble behind them were trundling a gun, 
 
 About a ten-pounder, I judged by the tun; 
 
 But foremost, and leading the glorious van. 
 
 Marched a man, 't is my plan, to ban, if I can. 
 
 In his gait, in his dress, in his dignified air, 
 
 With his ' brethren in arms' like a prince he'd compare ; 
 
 He'd striven for office, he'd striven for fame. 
 
 He longed for a deed to emblazon his name. 
 
 The law was his hobby, at least by pretence ; 
 
 He Avas great on a case without need of defence ; 
 
 And his talents, beside, most decidedly were. 
 
 For the use of his countrymen, la milltaire. [tion, 
 
 How he lived, the Lord knows ; but 't was my calcula- 
 
 It was partly or\ faith, partly on speculation. 
 
 He appeared to feel grand ; yea, he felt rather bigger 
 
 Than the man who had seen Gen'ral Washington's 
 
 * nigger." 
 But I'll prove him full soon, if my pen doesn't fail, 
 A ' creature of circumstance ;' so to our tale. 
 
 I joined in the march, with an inkling of fun ; 
 The music rolled on, and they trundled the gun. 
 
 They came to a spot — 
 
 A square vacant lot, 
 Called after the name of the great Washington. 
 
 The gun w^s now tried. 
 
 The match was applied. 
 And there they ' let sliver' to herald the sun. 
 
 It looked like a fight, 
 
 For overcome quite 
 The martial musicians lay stretched like the do7ie. 
 
152 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Bang ! bang ! went the gun, till there wanted but one 
 
 More shot, and the job for the sunrise was done ; 
 
 'T was likely to fail, for I heard a man swear 
 
 That nothing to serve for a wadding was there. 
 
 To fail in completion the shame would be great, 
 
 Amounting almost to the shame of defeat. 
 
 !No ! that would n't do ; they must give the last shot, 
 
 But where was a wadding at hand to be got ? 
 
 Our hero stood near, in contemplative mood, 
 
 Ruminating a speech, as a cow does her cud ; 
 
 But, sudden, a thought ! 
 
 His pocket he sought 
 And drew forth a handkerchief dirty as mud. 
 
 ' Here ! take that ! my lad, 
 
 And use it, e-gad ! 
 The gun shall not fail for the want of a wad !' 
 
 Soon the gun roared anew, ^ 
 
 Into shreds the rag flew ; — 
 ' There goes my best handkerchief — silk one — by !' 
 
 A drizzle set in ; and the gun was now housed ; 
 But fame, for our hero, was fully aroused. 
 Her echoing trump was at once to her mouth ; 
 All over the District, east, west, north and south, 
 His name spread abroad ; and, spreading, the story 
 Gathered in bulk, while it gathered him glory ; 
 Till, by time that the story had back again got, 
 In the ' last war' he'd killed twenty men at one shot ! 
 
 The next thing we see in the ' People's Gazette ;' 
 Our hero for Congress his visage has set. 
 
THE WAY IT IS DONE. 153 
 
 The editor, there, Mr. Butcher's-meat's-m, 
 Comes out with a column of something like this : 
 
 * It is time for the people to rouse from their sleep ! 
 The wolves are abroad in the clothing of sheep ; 
 
 But give the pull long, 
 
 The pull very strong, 
 The pull altogether, and we '11 go it steep ! 
 
 'Tis our duty to sow, 
 
 Though our readers must know, 
 No personal benefit hoping to reap. 
 
 Come, bards, tune your lays 
 
 To our candidate's praise. 
 And we to the music our eye balls will keep. 
 Our man is a patriot, true as the sun ; 
 Familiarly known as the ' Son-of-a-gun !' 
 For what man but he, on that glorious day 
 When patriots ; gather, as patriots may ; 
 When likely to fail was the national round. 
 And brave men e'en wept when no wadding was found ; 
 Who but he would suffer, unanswered, we say, 
 His own private wardrobe to be shot away ? 
 Let his name, like the clouds, o'er Columbia scud ! 
 Let his name brightly gleam in the annals of blood ! 
 Let this deed of his fame be embalmed with the tale 
 Of Putnam's bold feat, or the hanging of Hale !' 
 
 Success seemed more sure, as election drew nigher ; 
 But one ' circumstance' more knocked his fat in the fire ; 
 
 For lo ! there was one 
 
 That morn, by the gun. 
 
154 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Who did not exactly belong to the squire ; 
 
 So merely for sport 
 
 He spread the report, 
 The candidate was as profane as a liar ; 
 
 That he stood on the spot 
 
 When the 'kerchief was shot, 
 And the squire swore so bad he was forced to retire ! 
 
 Enough — for the other side sought out this man ; 
 
 A dollar in hand, and a swig at the can. 
 
 Deposition was made 'fore a magistrate lawful ; 
 
 The man swore upon oath that the swearing was awful ; 
 
 And next day appeared in the * Voice of the People' 
 
 A yarn half as long as a meeting house steeple. 
 
 Therein 'twas shown clear, as the light of the sun, 
 
 That they should not vote for the Son-of a-gun. 
 
 They called on the people to rally ane-^j^ 
 
 And vote for their candidate, called jtie ' True Blue.' 
 
 He had all the other man's patriot pride ; 
 
 Was rather inclined to be pious, beside ; 
 
 Sure, slander pursued him, but still 't wasn't true 
 
 He once was indicted for stealing an ewe ; 
 
 He held to equality when people meet, — 
 
 Been seen shaking hands with a ' nig' in the street ; 
 
 And as for his courage, why, blest be his name, 
 
 He had entered a house that was roaring on flame ! 
 
 And saved, at the imminent risk of his life, 
 
 A print representing John Rogers and wife ; 
 
 Then hurrah for True-Blue ! for he only can save 
 
 Our country from Buin's oblivious grave ! 
 
THE WAY IT IS DONE. 155 
 
 The contest grew fiercer each following day, 
 
 The young and the old of both sides joined the fray ; 
 
 Some voters were bought, 
 
 Some duels were fought ; 
 One man had a part of his thigh shot away ; 
 
 Both editors wrote, 
 
 The people would quote. 
 The candidates mounted the stump for display ; 
 
 While some Oberlin men, 
 
 To the number of ten. 
 Bethought it a matter for which they should pray. 
 
 The day came at last, the ballots were cast, 
 And both party's colors were nailed to the mast ; 
 
 But the Oberlin men 
 
 To the number of ten. 
 Struck the friends of Son-of-a-gun all aghast ! 
 
 For neither they knew 
 
 The ' Gun' or 'True Blue.' 
 But thought it the safest to vote for the last. 
 And this, as their reasons for voting, they gave : 
 
 A man who would greet, 
 
 A poor nig in the street, 
 Must certainly be a good friend of the slave ; 
 
 And a man who would swear, 
 
 As profane as the 'square. 
 Must certainly be an ungodly old knave. 
 
 True Blue' was returned by majority ten, 
 And those were the votes of the Oberlin men. 
 
156 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Let every ^ constituent' reading this scrawl, 
 Who 's seen an election, and lived through it all, 
 With deepest of blushes acknowledge, forsooth, 
 That the foregoing tale isn't far from the truth. 
 When a president's up, or lower the grade 
 Of seekers for office, a hubbub is made ; 
 A green one, perusing the prints at such times, 
 Would deem they'd selected a man for his crimes. 
 And though we can't say but a ' Son-of-a-gun,' 
 Or another ' True Blue,' too often is run, 
 
 'T would be better by far 
 
 To have less wordy war, 
 Less blazonry, billingsgate, twitting, and pun ; 
 
 For it all ends in self. 
 
 Both sides want the pelf, — ^ 
 Division takes place when the battle is won ; 
 
 While some Oberlin men. 
 
 To the number of ten, 
 Or more, just step in, and the business is done. 
 
EPISTLE TO A WESTERN POET. 
 
 January 31, 1848. 
 
 Dear Buckeye .-—Are you hale and well, 
 And have you time on this to dwell ? — 
 Had I but wings, my feet to spell 
 With flying power. 
 My knuckles on your door should tell 
 In half an hour ! 
 
 • The time will come, I'll bet the flip. 
 When one may take a match, a chip. 
 And mount a broomstick, with his hip 
 
 Astride a kettle, 
 And up steam, till his speed outstrip 
 
 The wind, a Uttle, 
 
 In this our day and generation. 
 In this our mighty Yankee nation. 
 We 've but to make a ' calculation^^ 
 
 And next we hear 
 E'en red-haired, sanguine Expectation, 
 
 Is distanced, clear. 
 
 14 
 
158 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 We write by lightning ; next no wonder 
 If we should talk by means of thunder ; 
 Cotton will now rend rocks asunder, 
 
 But, bye and bye, 
 A cat-tail, thrust a mountain under, 
 
 Will blow 't sky high ! 
 
 0, mighty land ! — including Texas ! 
 Star-gazing statesmen soon will vex us : — 
 The moon they '11 say, cries out, ' Annex us. 
 
 And make us one ;' 
 And other nations will expect us 
 
 To hitch 'em on. 
 
 But sir, since you are pleased to care 
 What my ' designs and prospects' are. 
 And wish * biography' to share 
 
 My brief epistle, — 
 There must be blown, you 're well aware, 
 
 Ego's own whistle. 
 
 Here, on the spot from whence I write, 
 My eyes first opened to the light ; 
 Whether a rhyme was squealed on sight— 
 
 'T is safe to doubt it ; 
 My recollection is not quite 
 
 Distinct about it. 
 
EPISTLE TO A WESTERN POET. 159 
 
 Still, sir, 't is hard to note the time 
 When first I perpetrated rhyme ; 
 A whisper of the art sublime 
 
 Aye hung around me ; 
 The same in ' slips' and youthful prime 
 The muses found me. 
 
 Down Nature's lanes I loved to stray, 
 Her lamp poured light around my way, 
 Art, with her polish-giving ray. 
 
 Shone not upon it ; 
 To her I '11 never have to pay 
 
 For one poor sonnet. 
 
 If Nature does not make the man, 
 No famous school or college can ; 
 Though parrot-like he learns to scan 
 
 His Latin grammar, 
 His knowledge goes no farther than 
 
 The tutor's hammer. 
 
 When in my teens, by Fancy led. 
 Far westward ho ! I ' drew my sled ;' 
 There hunter-clad, and hunter-fed, 
 
 I roved and learned ; 
 Shot deer, wild western romance read. 
 And prairies burned. 
 
160 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Your lakes, like shoreless seas, in-land ; 
 Your prairies that like space expand ; 
 Your streams, and mighty woods, are grand 
 
 Beyond my praise ; 
 But dear New England will command 
 
 My heart and lays. 
 
 Her mountains bleak, her sheltered dales. 
 Her Borean blasts, and heathful gales, 
 Her brooks, her fertile river-vales, 
 
 Her ocean-coast ; 
 These, till the lamp of nature fails. 
 
 Inspire me most. 
 
 Here, too, was given to the light 
 The rural lays these scenes incite ; 
 Hence, lately that Thanksgiving Night 
 
 Was blown abroad. 
 About which you were pleased to write 
 
 And kindly laud. 
 
 I may not like Longfellow chime 
 A ' Psalm of life,' in strains sublime ; 
 Or reach that high poetic clime 
 
 Where Bryant flies ; 
 Where Drake, with his bold bannered rhyme,* 
 
 Neglected lies, 
 
 * Vide '' The American Flag"— J. R. Drake. 
 
EPISTLE TO A WESTERN POET. 161 
 
 I may not paint with sweet Nat. Willis 
 The beauty of exquisite Phillis ; 
 Or vie with any bard whose skill is 
 
 In flowery diction ; 
 You know their soul inspiring rill is 
 
 Fount, Classic Fiction. 
 
 Without the power if not desire, 
 With these to tempt the regions higher, 
 My coat of arms the rural lyre 
 
 And good old plough ; 
 These, bright with patriotic fire, 
 
 Will serve me, now. 
 
 'Gainst Fame I may not breathe a ban ; 
 She 's dear to the poetic clan, 
 More so by far, it may be, than 
 
 To Cla?/s and Catos; 
 But fame will never give a man 
 
 Pork and potatoes. 
 
 So round and round the furrowed plain 
 Anon I '11 chase the plough again ; 
 And dropping egotistic strain, 
 
 Now sign my card ; 
 Meanwhile, yours truly will remain 
 
 The ' Peasant Bard.* 
 
 14* 
 
EPISTLE 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ADDRESS, " TO THE * PEASANT 
 BARD,' MOUNTED ON PEGASUS, AND TUNING HIS LYRE." 
 
 June 23, 1850. 
 
 Last evening, seated in my door, 
 (Day in the cornfield being o'er,) 
 I took the * Rambler' to explore 
 
 Its pages fair. 
 And note what news the week before 
 
 Was fresh and rare. 
 
 But thirst for news the moment fled, 
 That I your kind address had read ; 
 Visions of laurels round my head 
 
 Uprose in place. 
 (How vanity, by flattery led, 
 
 Will stalk apace !) 
 
 But no ; you 're not accused by me 
 Of using fulsome flattery ; 
 Of something more like sympathy 
 
 It seems to savor ; 
 So blow your granite whistle free, 
 
 jSans fear, sans favor. 
 
EPISTLE TO AN AUTHOR. 163 
 
 That * winged beast' that I bestride 
 Must go free-will, if I would ride ; 
 He '11 bear no spur or whip o'er hide 
 
 To urge him faster ; 
 Indeed, I ne'er could quite decide 
 
 Which was the master. 
 
 For when upon his back I spring 
 To urge him, — he 's another thing ; 
 Not from a feather of his wing 
 
 The dust he '11 shake ; 
 That ' lyre' is tuneless, — not a string 
 
 Will music make. 
 
 Then off I get, his halter slip, 
 Bring down the Ijre, thw^ack ! o'er his hip, 
 And cry, begone ! you lazy rip ! 
 
 Stupid and sullen ! 
 And off he is with pendent lip 
 
 Munching a mullen. 
 
 No more your hardship minds him then, 
 Till, lo 1 anon he comes again 
 With head erect and flowing mane. 
 
 And eyes a-glowing ; 
 And presto, over hill and plain 
 
 We 're soaring, going. 
 
164 THE HAKP AND PLOW. 
 
 Though puffed with praise, or starved so lean 
 By cold neglect, his ribs be seen, 
 Jockies shall never call him mean 
 
 Amongst the mighty ; 
 I would not ' swap' him — no, not e'en 
 
 For Zack's ' old Whitey:* 
 
 And now, one word about your ' prayer ;' 
 I 've stated matters as they are ; 
 Such as he is I cannot spare 
 
 My beast of story ; 
 The ' Peasant Bard' he yet must bear 
 
 To realms of glory ! 
 
 But this I give you, — note it well : 
 Hard by Parnassus one may dwell 
 And learn to poise a sounding shell, 
 
 Or tune a lyre. 
 But nature's God must give the spell — 
 
 The sacred fire. 
 
 * The famous war-horse of President Taylor. 
 
IMPROMPTU, 
 
 ON A DISTANT VIEW OF MOUNT MONADNOCK. 
 
 Yonder the Mountain-monarch looms — 
 
 The eye with grandeur fills ; 
 His head begirt with cloudy glooms, 
 
 His foot with woody hills ! 
 
 Mighty Monadnock ! what art thou, 
 
 So regal, lofty, grand, 
 To Him who heaved thy heavenward brow. 
 
 And graved thee by His hand ? 
 
 A pebble, by Almighty plan 
 
 Cast on the sands of Time, 
 To show the little creature, man, 
 
 God's trifles are sublime. 
 
A POOR MAN'S EPITAPH. 
 
 No more by Fortune's freaks abused, 
 No more by brother man misused, 
 No more of Folly's deeds accused — 
 
 His actions done, 
 With Nature's works no more amused. 
 
 Here lies her son ! 
 
 When Ruin, demon-like, assailed him 
 He ne'er complained that trouble ailed him. 
 For hope of heaven never failed him 
 
 While life remained, 
 And seeing Death approach, he hailed him 
 With joy unfeigned. 
 
 He 's gone of better clime in quest. 
 Where all the ' weary are at rest ;' 
 And said, with fears no more opprest, 
 
 He hoped to rise 
 And enter, as a welcome guest, 
 
 In Paradise. 
 
IMPROMPTU. 167 
 
 Pilgrim, who strays this hillock near, 
 Didst know the one who slumbers here ? 
 His foibles shun with cautious fear, 
 
 His virtues heed ; 
 Yea, follow Virtue wheresoe'er 
 
 Her steps may lead ! 
 
 IMPROMPTU, 
 
 TO THE CHARTER OAK, (HARTFORD) ON BEING REFUSED 
 
 PERMISSION, WITH OTHERS, TO APPROACH THE 
 
 TREE, SEPT. 19, 1839. 
 
 A clever de'il, in Eden's yard, 
 Kept the forbidden tree ; 
 
 But who, approach to thee debar' d, 
 Can say as much of thee ? 
 
INFERIOR ANIMALS AFFORD INSTRUCTION 
 
 TO MAN. 
 
 As the loquacious geese upon the wing, 
 Beguiling labor, never cease to sing ; 
 As the poor bee, half drowned in soaking rain, 
 Dries his wet wing and buzzes forth again ; 
 As the good dog obeys his master's will. 
 Thro' good and evil his companion still ; 
 As the meek lamb, beneath the butcher's knife, 
 In conscious innocence resigns its life. — 
 So, man, on thee when life's hard labors press. 
 Let your heart sing, and make the burden less. 
 When Mischief's ill-brewed rains have drenched it thro', 
 Dry your wet cloak and brave the storm anew. 
 From your own dog a golden lesson learn, 
 And ne'er to sacred friendship traitor turn. 
 When death shall lift his hand to stop thy breath, 
 Look up with innocence and welcome death ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 15 
 
SONGS. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE CHEROKEE. 
 
 Air : — 'Exile of Erin.' 
 
 fO, SOFT falls the dew, in the twilight descending, 
 And tall grows the shadowy hill on the plain ; 
 And night o'er the far distant forest is bending. 
 
 Like the storm-spirit, dark, o'er the tremulous main ; 
 But midnight enshrouds my lone heart in its dwelling, 
 A tumult of woe in my bosom is swelling, 
 And a tear, unbefitting the warrior, is telling 
 That Hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee ! 
 
 Can a tree that is torn from its root by the fountain, 
 
 The pride of the valley, green-spreading and fair, 
 
 Can it flourish removed to the rock of the mountain, 
 
 Unwarmed by the sun and unwatered by care ? 
 
 Though Vesper be kind her sweet dews in bestowing, 
 
 No life-giving brook in its shadow is flowing, 
 
 And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing. 
 
 So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee ! 
 
172 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Loved graves of my sires ! have I left you forever ? 
 
 How melted my heart when I bade you adieu ! 
 Shall joy light the face of the Indian ? — ah, never ! 
 
 While memory sad has the power to renew. 
 As flies the fleet deer when the blood-hound is started, 
 So fled winged Hope from the poor broken-hearted ; 
 0, could she have turned, ere for ever departed, 
 
 And beckoned with smiles to her sad Cherokee ! 
 
 Is it the low wind through the wet willows rushing, 
 
 That fills with wild numbers my listening ear ? 
 Or is some hermit-rill, in the solitude gushing, 
 
 The strange-playing minstrel, whose music I hear ? 
 'T is the voice of my father, slow, solemnly stealing, 
 I see his dim form, where the gloom gathers, kneeling, 
 To the God of the white man, the Christian, appealing ; 
 He prays for the foe of the dark Cherokee I 
 
 Great Spirit of Good, whose abode is the heaven, 
 Whose wampum of peace is the bow in the sky, 
 
 Wilt Thou give to the wants of the clamorous raven, 
 Yet turn a deaf ear to my piteous cry ? 
 
 O'er the ruins of home, o'er my heart's desolation, 
 
 No more shalt thou hear my unblest lamentation ; 
 
 For death's dark encounter I make preparation, 
 He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee ! 
 
THE ADIEU. 
 
 Air : — ' Irish Emigrant's Lament.' 
 
 Sad was the hour when for the sea 
 
 My Willie left his home ! 
 The day was bright with spring's delight. 
 
 But round my heart was gloom. 
 I thought on ocean's perils wild, 
 
 The changes, too, of years ; 
 That waters wide should us divide 
 
 Forever, were my fears. 
 
 I see him as at parting, now ; 
 
 His calm and manly air ; 
 His eye that glowed, no tear bestowed, 
 
 Yet sorrow still was there ; 
 He grasped me warmly by the hand, 
 
 He murmured but my name : 
 The words were few at our adieu, 
 
 For words we could not frame. 
 
 The wind blows freshly from the sea, 
 
 A ship is off the shore ; 
 But ah ! I know no breeze will blow 
 
 To waft poor Willie o'er. 
 Full low on ocean's bed he lies, 
 
 xlbove, the billows play ; 
 The waters wide will us divide 
 
 Forever, — till the day ! 
 
 *15 
 
THE BANKS OF MAUMEE. 
 
 Atr :— ' The Hermit.- 
 
 I STOOD in a dream on the banks of Maumee ; 
 
 'T was Autumn, and nature seemed wrapt in decay ; 
 The wind moaning swept thro' the shivering tree, 
 
 The leaf from the bough drifted slowly away ; 
 The gray-eagle screamed on the marge of the stream, 
 
 The solitudes answered the Bird of the Free ; 
 All lonely and sad was the scene of my dream, 
 
 And mournful the hour on the banks of Maumee. 
 
 A form passed before me — a vision of one 
 
 Who mourned for his nation, his country, and kin ; 
 He walked on the shores, now deserted and lone. 
 
 Where the homes of his tribe, in their glory, had been ; 
 And thought after thought o'er his sad spirit stole, 
 
 As wave follows wave o'er the turbulent sea ; 
 And thus lamentation he breathed from his soul 
 
 O'er the ruins of home, on the banks of Maumee : — 
 
THE BANKS OF MAUMEE. 175 
 
 As the hunter at morn, in the snows of the wild, 
 
 Recalls to his mind the sweet visions of night 
 When sleep, softly falling, his sorrows beguiled, 
 
 And opened his ejes in the land of delight, — 
 So backward I muse on the dream of my youth ; 
 
 Ye peace-giving hours ! 0, when did ye flee ? 
 When the Christian neglected his pages of truth. 
 
 And the Great Spirit frowned on the banks of Maumee. 
 
 Oppression has lifted his iron-like rod 
 
 And smitten my people again and again ; 
 The whiteman has said there is justice with God, — 
 
 Will he hear the poor Indian before him complain ? 
 Sees he not how his children are worn and oppres'd ? 
 
 How driven in exile ? — ! can he not see ? 
 And I, in the garments of heaviness dress'd, 
 
 The last of my tribe on the banks of Maumee ? 
 
 Ye trees ! on whose branches my cradle was hung. 
 
 Must I y\e]d you a prey to the axe and the fire ? 
 Ye shores ! where the chant of the pow-wow was sung. 
 
 Have ye witnessed the light of the council expire ? 
 Pale ghosts of my fathers, who battled of yore ! 
 
 Is the Great Spirit just in the land where ye be ? 
 While life lasts dejected I '11 wander this shore, 
 
 And join you at last from the banks of Maumee. 
 
THE MINUTE-MAN. 
 
 It was on the banks of Hoosic, in days of long ago, 
 Where then, as now, its waters bless the farmer as they 
 
 flow ;— 
 It was in the vale of Hoosic a father and his son 
 Were dwelling, on the day before the day at Bennington. 
 
 Along the river stretching was spread a fertile plain ; 
 There sire and son were thrusting in the hook amidst the 
 
 grain ; 
 While near at hand their cottage stood half hidden from 
 
 the sight, 
 By trees that wooed the birds hj day and sheltered them 
 
 hj night. 
 
 The good wife plied her needle within the cottage door ; 
 
 Her babe the cat was watching, catching flies upon the 
 floor ; 
 
 It was a sweet domestic scene,— sweet both to sire and son, 
 
 That blessed them on the day before the day at Benning- 
 ton. 
 
THE MINUTE-MAN. 177 
 
 When suddenly, and vision-like, before them there ap- 
 peared, 
 A form of soldier bearing, full of martial presence reared ; 
 He was clad in regimentals — a gleaming sword his pride ; 
 The father heard his errand, and he laid his hook aside. 
 
 Then toward the cottage went the sire, with calm, deter- 
 mined air, 
 
 And took from o'er the mantle -tree his gun that rested 
 there ; 
 
 Farewell ! farewell, dear wife ! said he ; farewell, my 
 children dear ! 
 
 My country calls aloud for me, I may not linger here ! 
 
 * Weep not for me to break mine heart,' he spoke like 
 
 sainted Paul, 
 Behold I leave you, knowing not what thing shall me 
 
 befall ; 
 My life is staked for Liberty — in after years, my son, 
 Remember this, the day before the day at Bennington ! 
 
 That son is now an aged man, his head is silvered o'er ; 
 He tills the same plantation that his father tilled before ; 
 And lessons many he has read in life's histronic page. 
 His words are those of sound import, his wisdom that of 
 age. 
 
 He 's a lover, too, of Liberty ; and to his children tells 
 This reason why that love so strong within his bosom dwells : 
 ' Last time I saw my sire alive was when he took his gun, 
 And left us on the day before the day at Bennington.' 
 
THE EAGLES OF COLUMBIA, 
 
 A NATIONAL SONG, 
 
 The Eagles of Columbia ! 
 
 How gallantly they fly, 
 With vengeance in their awful swoop, 
 
 With lightning in their eye !— 
 When perched upon our standard bright 
 
 Above the stripes and stars, 
 They shall wave o'er the brave 
 
 In the thunder-storm of Mars. 
 
 The colors of Columbia ! — 
 
 Her son who roams the earth, 
 Tho' frozen at the icy pole, 
 
 Or scorched on Cancer's hearth, 
 Shall look upon them, and forget 
 
 His sufferings and woes. 
 For they wave o'er the brave 
 
 Where the breeze of ocean blows. 
 
 The soldier, ere the signal flies 
 
 Along the waiting line, 
 Beholds his country's bird with pride 
 
 And kindles at the shrine ! 
 
THE EAGLES OP COLUMBIA. 179 
 
 Resolved thro' blood and carnage dire 
 
 To bear it safely, for 
 It shall wave o'er the brave 
 
 In the sulphur cloud of war. 
 
 The sailor, ere the foeman strikes, 
 
 Aloft shall glance his eye 
 To where, fast-nailed for victory, 
 
 Columbia's colors fly ; 
 And when the vollied thunder breaks, 
 
 Forth-ushering death and woe, 
 They shall wave o'er the brave 
 
 On the gory decks below. 
 
 When Peace, with all her smiling train, 
 
 Moves sweetly thro' the land, 
 And patriots to their homes retire 
 
 And sheathe the glittering brand — 
 Victoriously our Eagles fly 
 
 When war's commotions cease ; 
 They shall wave o'er the brave 
 
 In the stilling beams of Peace. 
 
FREEDOM'S OWN. 
 
 New England is a glorious land. 
 
 Fast anchored by the sea ! 
 Her mountains high that lift the sky 
 
 Are altars of the free ! 
 Are altars of the free, and they 
 
 Are Freedom's bulwarks bold ; 
 Though all the world defiance hurled. 
 
 She's safe in her strong hold. 
 
 Forth on her mission round the world 
 
 Fair Freedom sought a home ; 
 Now paused and wrought, now battles fought. 
 
 But still compelled to roam ; 
 Till soaring, eagle-like, she saw 
 
 New England's hills appear. 
 Then ceased her flight, and with delight 
 
 She came and rested here. 
 
 And here she built her sacred shrine, 
 
 Here lit her Vestal flame ; 
 Here watched and feared, a race she reared. 
 
 And called them by her name. 
 
 I 
 
freedom's own. 181 
 
 New England's sons are Freedom's own, — 
 
 The tyrant is their scorn ; 
 No earthly power can chain an hour 
 
 The true New England born. 
 
 New England's sons are everywhere, 
 
 In every clime they roam ; 
 They 're brave, they 're strong, and never long 
 
 Forgetful of their home. 
 New England's dead are everywhere. 
 
 In every clime they rest ; 
 And ocean's wave is th' mighty grave 
 
 Of her noblest and her best. 
 
 Then here's to Freedom's blessed name ! 
 
 And here is to her own ! 
 Yet land and sea her own shall be, 
 
 And tyrants be unknown. 
 We '11 spread her colors to the breeze, 
 
 We '11 bear her eagle crest ; 
 Then should she roam she '11 find a home 
 
 Wherever she may rest ! 
 
 16 
 
DOWN BY THE BROOK WHERE WILLOWS 
 GREEN. 
 
 Down bj the brook, where willows green 
 
 Spring to the zephyr and the sun ; 
 Where the bright wavelets, glancing seen, 
 
 Eternal murmur as they run ; — 
 I pause to ponder on their flow ; 
 
 While forward swift the waters run, 
 Backward as swift will memory go 
 
 To days when life with me begun. 
 
 As dreamy music fills my ear, — 
 
 The voiceful hum of waters sweet. 
 The long, bright days again appear 
 
 That used my infant eyes to greet. 
 Companions of those golden hours 
 
 Rise from the past, and round me stand ; 
 Long since they perished * like the flowers !' 
 
 Long since they sought the spirit land ! 
 
DOWN BY THE BROOK. 183 
 
 I love to think upon those days ; 
 
 The early found, the early lost ; 
 Aye memory sings her sweetest lays 
 
 When strung her lyre at dearest cost. 
 The cares of life the present fill, 
 
 They all engross, the heart, the hand ; 
 But from the past, at times, there will 
 
 Break gloamings like the better land. 
 
BY THE DEEP NINE P 
 
 When wearing off the shore with the breakers on the lee. 
 And shrill winds are piping to the thunder of the sea ; 
 As the shoal deeper grows, it becalms the sailor's fears, 
 As trembling he listens, and the saving call he hears : — 
 ' By the deep nine ! by the deep nine !' 
 
 When murky is the night, and the misty wind is free, 
 When black scowls the sky above, and blacker, still, the 
 
 sea ; 
 When doubtful is the land-fall that dimly looms a-head, 
 Then ye '11 heave to, my hearties ! — bear a hand with 
 
 the lead : — 
 
 ' By the deep nine ! by the deep nine V 
 
 Lashed fast o'er the drenching waves, the hardy sailor 
 
 stands ; 
 His eye is quick and certain, and ready are his hands ; 
 Right cheerily o'erhead, then, the plunging lead he 
 
 swings, — 
 Down, deeper down, it goes, and he musically sings : — 
 ' By the deep nine ! by the deep nine !' 
 
' BY THE DEEP NINE.* 185 
 
 And ye, who are voyaging o'er life's tempestuous sea ! 
 Let judgment be your compass, your lead let prudence be ; 
 Should passion's current take you towards a wrecking reef, 
 Be wise to put about soon as prudence sounds relief : — 
 ' By the deep nine ! by the deep nine! * 
 
 The gallant ship, the Union, our brave old fathers built ; 
 Her keel was laid in heart' s-blood of willing martyrs spilt ! 
 Then beware ! ye who sail her along the flood of time, 
 Keep her bearings, keep her soundings, — she '11 float to 
 the chime : — 
 
 * By the deep nine ! by the deep nine !' 
 
 16* 
 
COLUMBIA RULES THE SEA, 
 
 The pennon flutters in the breeze, 
 
 The anchor comes a-peak ; 
 Let fall ! — sheet home ! — the briny foam 
 
 And ocean's waste we seek. 
 The booming gun speaks our adieu ; 
 
 Fast fades our native shore ; — 
 Columbia free shall rule the sea, 
 
 Britannia ruled of yore ! 
 
 We go the tempest's wrath to dare — 
 
 The billows' maddened play ; 
 Now climbing high against the sky, 
 
 Now rolling low away ! 
 While Yankee oak bears Yankee hearts 
 
 Courageous to the core, ^ 
 
 Columbia free shall rule the sea 
 
 Britannia ruled of yore. 
 
 We '11 bear her flag around the world 
 
 In thunder and in flame ; 
 From pole to pole sublimely roll 
 
 The music of her name. 
 
COLUMBIA RULES THE SEA. 187 
 
 The winds shall pipe her peans loud, 
 
 The billows chorus roar ; — 
 Columbia free shall rule the sea 
 
 Britannia ruled of yore. 
 
 Is there a haughty foe on earth 
 
 Would treat her with disdain ? — 
 'T were better far that nation were 
 
 Whelmed in the mighty main ! 
 Should War her demon dogs unchain, 
 
 Or Peace her plenty pour, 
 Columbia free shall rule the sea 
 
 Britannia ruled of yore. 
 
THE OLD FARMER'S ELEGY. 
 
 On a green, grassy knoll by the banks of the brook, 
 That so long and so often has watered his flock, 
 The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep, 
 While the waters a low, lapsing lullaby keep. 
 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, — has reaped his last grain, 
 
 No morn shall awake him to labor again. 
 
 The blue-bird sings sweet on the gay maple bough, — 
 Its warbling oft cheered him while holding the plough ; 
 And the robins above him hop light on the mold. 
 For he fed them with crumbs when the season was cold. 
 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, — has reaped his last grain, 
 
 No morn shall awake him to labor again. 
 
 Yon tree, that with fragrance is filling the air. 
 So rich with its blossoms, so thrifty and fair, 
 By his own hand was planted, and well did he say 
 It would live when its planter had mouldered away ! 
 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, — has reaped his last grain. 
 
 No morn shall awake him to labor again. 
 
THE OLD farmer's ELEGY. 189 
 
 There 's the well that he dug, with its waters so cold, 
 With its wet, dripping bucket, so mossy and old, 
 No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn. 
 For ' the pitcher is broken,' — the old man is gone ! 
 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, — has reaped his last grain. 
 
 No morn shall awake him to labor again. 
 
 And the seat where he sat by his own cottage door, 
 In the still summer eves, when his labors were o'er. 
 With his eye on the moon, and his pipe in his hand. 
 Dispensing his truths like a sage of the land. 
 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, — has reaped his last grain. 
 
 No morn shall awake him to labor again. 
 
 'T was a gloom-giving day when the old farmer died ! 
 
 The stout-hearted mourned, — the affectionate cried ; 
 
 And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend, 
 
 For they all lost a brother, a man, and a friend. 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, — has reaped his last grain. 
 No morn shall awake him to labor again. 
 
 For upright and honest the old farmer was ; 
 
 His God he revered, — he respected the laws ; 
 
 Tho' fameless he lived, he has gone where his worth 
 
 Will outshine like pure gold all the dross of this earth. 
 He has ploughed his last furrow, — has reaped his last grain, 
 No morn shall awake him to labor again. 
 
JULY FOURTH. 
 
 This is the mora — the glorious morn 
 When Freedom nerved for strife ; 
 Put to her lips her clarion horn 
 And woke a land to life ! 
 
 Then let the bell its music swell, — 
 
 The gun its thunder chime ! 
 This day of days our children's praise 
 Shall have to latest time. 
 
 This is the morn — the glorious morn 
 
 Broke scepter and the rod ; 
 When freemen faced a tyrant's scorn 
 
 And thanked Almighty God ! 
 Then let the bell, &c. 
 
 This is the morn — the glorious morn 
 
 Dispelled Oppression's night ; 
 When Liberty, the heaven-born, 
 
 Baptized us into light. 
 
 Then let the bell, &c. 
 
JULY FOURTH. 191 
 
 This is the day — the blessed day 
 
 That first our flag unfurled ; 
 Spread forth its starry folds to play, — 
 
 The wonder of the world. 
 Then let the bell, &c. 
 
 This is the day — the blessed day 
 
 "When every patriot should 
 Think on his sires' victorious way 
 
 Thro' terrors, fire, and blood ! 
 Then let the bell, &c. 
 
 This is the day — the blessed day 
 
 Whose memories shall burn 
 BrigU on my heart, till shrouding clay 
 Shall ' dust to dust' return ! 
 
 Then let the bell its music swell — 
 
 The gun its thunder chime ! 
 This day of days our children's praise 
 Shall have to latest time. 
 
THE OLD POD-AUGER DAYS. 
 
 I SAW an aged man at work — 
 
 He turned an auger round ; 
 And ever and anon he 'd pause, 
 
 And meditate profound. 
 Good morning, friend, quoth I to him, — 
 
 Art thinking when to raise ^ 
 0, no ! said he, I 'm thinking on 
 
 The old ' pod-auger days.' 
 
 True, by the hardest then we wrought, 
 
 With little extra aid ; 
 But honor's were the things we bought, 
 
 And honor's those we made. 
 But now invention stalks abroad, 
 
 Deception dogs her ways ; 
 Things different are from what they were 
 
 In old ' pod-auger days.' 
 
 Then homely was the fare we had, 
 And homespun what we wore ; 
 
 Then scarce a niggard pulled the string 
 Inside his cabin door. 
 
THE OLD POD-AUGER DAYS. 193 
 
 Then humbugs did n't fly so thick 
 
 As half the world to haze ; 
 That sort of bug was scarcely known 
 
 In old ' pod-auger days.' 
 
 Then men were strong, and woman fair 
 
 Was hearty as the doe ; 
 Then few so dreadful ' feeble' were, 
 
 They could n't knit and sew ; 
 Then girls could sing, and they could work, 
 
 And thrum gridiron lays ; 
 That sort of music took the palm 
 
 In old ' pod-auger days.' 
 
 Then men were patriots — rare, indeed, 
 
 An Arnold or a Burr ; 
 They loved their country, and in turn 
 
 Were loved and blessed by her. 
 Then Franklin, Sherman, Rittenhouse 
 
 Earned well the nation's praise ; 
 We 've not the Congress that v/e had 
 
 In old ' pod-auger days.' 
 
 Then, * slow and certain ' was the word ; 
 
 Now, * dei'l the hindmost take ;' 
 Then buyers rattled down the tin ; 
 
 Now, w^ords must payment make ; 
 Then, murder-doing villians soon 
 
 Were decked in hempen bays ; 
 We did n't murder in our sleep ^ 
 
 In old *■ pod-auger days.' 
 17 
 
194 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 So wags the world ; — 't is well enough, 
 
 If Wisdom went by steam ; 
 But in my day she used to drive 
 
 A plain old-fashioned team ; 
 And Justice with her bandage off 
 
 Can now see choice in ways ; 
 She used to sit blind-fold and stern 
 
 In old ' pod-auger days.' 
 
nOE OUT YOUR ROW.' 
 
 One lazy day a farmer's boy- 
 Was hoeing out the corn, 
 And moodily had listened long 
 
 To hear the dinner horn. 
 The welcome blast was heard at last, 
 
 And down he dropt his hoe ; 
 But goodman shouted in his ear. 
 
 Hoe out your row ! — 0, 
 Hoe out your row ! 
 
 Altho' a ' hard one' was the row. 
 
 To use a ploughman phrase, 
 
 And the 'ad, as sailors have it, 
 
 Beginning well to * haze,' — 
 
 ' I can,' said he, and manfully 
 
 He seized again his hoe ; 
 And goodman smiled to see the boy 
 Hoe out his row, — 0, 
 Hoe out his row. 
 
196 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 The lad the text remembered long^ 
 
 And proved the moral well, 
 That perseverance to the end 
 
 At last will nobij tell. 
 Take courage, man ! resolve you ean^ 
 
 And strike a vig'rons blow, 
 In life's great field of varied toil 
 
 Hoe out your row, — O5 
 Hoe out your row. 
 
WASHING BY THE BROOK. 
 
 Where the alders girt a grassy 
 
 Leaf-embowered nook, 
 There I spied a cottage lassie 
 
 Washing by the brook. 
 
 Bright the wavelets glanced beside her, 
 
 Brighter was the look 
 That she gave to him who spied her 
 
 Washing by the brook. 
 
 Sweet the songs of birds around her, — 
 
 Songs from Nature's book ; 
 Sweeter hers to him who found her 
 
 Washing by the brook. 
 
 Heaven bless her ! heaven watch her ! 
 
 Pride may overlook 
 But for graces never match her. 
 
 Washing by the brook. 
 
 17* 
 
WHERE GENTLE HOUS-A-TONIC THREADS.' 
 
 Where gentle Hous-a-ton-ic threads 
 
 Its pathway to tlie sea, 
 It mirrors many a flow'ret sweet 
 
 And many a noble tree. 
 The flowers are the maidens fair, 
 
 Old Berkshire's boast and pride ; 
 And manhood is the loftj tree 
 
 Fast bj the water side. 
 
 High tower the hills above the vale 
 
 Where Housa tonic flows ; 
 There free the breeze of summer plays, 
 
 And pure are winter's snows. 
 But freer is the honest hand 
 
 That tills the soil below ; 
 And purer is the maiden there 
 
 Than the unsullied snow. 
 
 Firm stand Tigh-con-ic's tablets high 
 
 O'er Housatonic's plain, 
 And Time upon their solid base 
 
 Shall try his scythe in vain. 
 But firmer is the spirit bold 
 
 That Berkshire's freemen show ; 
 And fame shall sing of Berkshire's fair 
 
 While time and water flow. 
 
ASHUELOT RIVER. 
 
 Air :— ' Afton Water.' 
 
 Glide on, Ash-u-e-lot, with music to hail 
 
 And join the bright stream of my own native vale ! 
 
 1 list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore 
 
 The nation that named thee ; they see thee no more. 
 
 How sweet in the autumn to stray by thy side, 
 Beneath the smooth beeches that drink of thy tide ! 
 To hear the wind sigh for the wild sylvan chief, 
 And faint, dreamy knell of the slow-falling leaf ! 
 
 Here came the dark maiden, in days that are flown, 
 When painted for battle her warrior had gone, — 
 To muse o'er thy waters, to hear in their flow 
 The accents of pleasure, or sobbings of woe. 
 
 When bright shone the moon, and the bough scarcely stir'd, 
 And th' wolf's lonely howl from Monadnock was heard, 
 She saw in thy mantle of mist, chill and gray. 
 The ghost of her warrior rise wreathing away. 
 
200 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Still plajs In the breeze, as of yore, thy light wave. 
 But on thy green banks all unknown is her grave ; 
 The ploughboy turns, whistling, some mouldering bone,- 
 Here still flow thy waters, — her grave is unknown. 
 
 Glide on, Ashuelot, with music to hail 
 
 And swell the bright flood of my own native vale ; 
 
 I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore 
 
 The nation that loved thee ; they see thee no more. 
 
LEYDEN GLEN. 
 
 When first thro' lonely Leyden Glen 
 
 I went the wild surveying, 
 Its channel'd rocks, its sylvan glooms, 
 
 Its brawling torrent playing ; 
 I there an aged man espied, 
 
 Beneath a hemlock sitting. 
 His gaze was on the bubbles bright 
 
 That round its roots were flitting. 
 
 * Beneath this tree,' the old man said, 
 
 ' A maiden and her lover 
 Once met and linked the tender vows 
 
 That death alone may sever. 
 They saw the future thro' the eye 
 
 Of hope's enchanting vision ; 
 And all the world before them lay 
 
 A beauteous field elysian. 
 
 ' Tho' we on pleasures past may look. 
 
 Or backward turn with sorrow, 
 What know we, creatures of to day, 
 
 About the future's morrow ? 
 The maid in all her purity 
 
 Went, years ago, to glory ; 
 I yet am here, but youth and love 
 
 Have with her fled before me.' 
 
SONG. 
 
 Where Liberty dwells, there is my country.'— Franklik. 
 
 From where Penobscot's flood reflects 
 
 The morning's ruddy beams, 
 To lone Itaska lake that feeds 
 
 The infant King of Streams, — ■ 
 Vast region ! from whose ample midst 
 
 Niagara's anthem swells : 
 Here is the home of Liberty, 
 
 And here her spirit dwells. 
 
 A voice is in each nameless brook, 
 
 Each river of our land ; 
 x\ midst the mountains, Titan piled, 
 
 That loom cloud-capt and grand ; 
 The breeze that rolls the prairie wave, 
 
 This voiceful hymning tells : 
 Here is the home of Liberty, 
 
 And here her spirit dwells. 
 
 Within the shieling on the hill. 
 
 The hamlet in the vale ; 
 Within the mart whence commerce sets 
 
 The snowy, seaward sail ; 
 Within our hearts, my countrymen, 
 
 A conscious feeling tells : 
 Here is the home of Liberty, 
 
 And here her spirit dwells. 
 
LINES ADDRESSED TO < OLD KNICK.' 
 
 Not to the celebrated devil, 
 Not Nick, tbou big, hope-blasting weevil, 
 Embodying all we know of evil ; — 
 
 No ! Goodness bless me ! 
 Thou 'It have to use me far more civil, 
 
 Ere I address thee. 
 
 But thou who dwell'st in Gotham city, 
 The MAN, warm-hearted, wise, and witty, 
 Thou who first read my rustic ditty, 
 
 First called me bard ! 
 (The holy truth will sure acquit thee 
 
 In that regard.) 
 
 Tho' not thy namesake's kin or pet. 
 There 's something weird about you, yet ; 
 What Editor before could set 
 
 So rich 2. 'Table?' 
 Where could mere human body get 
 
 The wherewith-able ? 
 
 * L. Gaylord Clark, Esq., editor of the venerable and valuable 
 Knickerbocker Magazine ;— both himself and Maga familiarly and 
 facetiously styled at times by their thousand admirers, ' Knick ' or 
 'OldKnick.' Mr. Clark first bestowed upon the author the wow rfe 
 flume ' Peasant-Bard.' — See Knickerbocker Mag. vol. xxxi, page 183. 
 
201 THE HARP AND PLOW. 
 
 Oh, had I but thj facile pen 1 
 Thy fancy to direct it 1 — then 
 I 'd hope to win from fellow men 
 
 A lofty name ; 
 And leave life's mediocral fen 
 
 For ' braes o' fame !' 
 
 I 'm coming out an author, now, 
 In book yclept ^ The Harp and Plow.' 
 Hopes, fears ; fears, hopes ; around my brow, 
 
 Weeds twine, or bays : 
 But, hit or miss, I '11 make my bow 
 
 One of these days. 
 
 My book I with trembling I shall show it, 
 Lest you annihilate the poet ; 
 But should you any praise bestow it. 
 
 Content I am, 
 Tho' every other critic blow it 
 
 To Rotterd~m.* 
 
 But by thy worth, and fancy fine. 
 By that small share which may be mine. 
 By all the favors of the Nine, 
 
 In store, or given, 
 I wish thee, Clark, for thee and thine, 
 
 The smiles of Heaven. 
 
 * This mode of wiiiing prof one proper names is Clark's own. 
 
 H 77 78^ 
 
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