Labor and Reform, vol 3, part 5 | Page 8

leanness rattle;
No
tottering hide-bound ghosts are there,
Or Pharaoh's evil cattle.
Each
stately beeve bespeaks the hand
That fed him unrepining;
The
fatness of a goodly land
In each dun hide is shining.
We've sought them where, in warmest nooks,
The freshest feed is
growing,
By sweetest springs and clearest brooks
Through
honeysuckle flowing;
Wherever hillsides, sloping south,
Are bright
with early grasses,
Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth,
The
mountain streamlet passes.
But now the day is closing cool,
The woods are dim before us,
The
white fog of the wayside pool
Is creeping slowly o'er us.
The
cricket to the frog's bassoon
His shrillest time is keeping;
The sickle
of yon setting moon
The meadow-mist is reaping.
The night is falling, comrades mine,
Our footsore beasts are weary,

And through yon elms the tavern sign
Looks out upon us cheery.

To-morrow, eastward with our charge
We'll go to meet the dawning,

Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge
Have seen the sun of morning.
When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth,
Instead of birds, are flitting;

When children throng the glowing hearth,
And quiet wives are
knitting;
While in the fire-light strong and clear
Young eyes of
pleasure glisten,
To tales of all we see and hear
The ears of home
shall listen.
By many a Northern lake and bill,

From many a mountain pasture,

Shall Fancy play the Drover still,
And speed the long night faster.

Then let us on, through shower and sun,
And heat and cold, be

driving;
There 's life alone in duty done,
And rest alone in striving.

1847.
THE HUSKERS.
IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain
Had left the
summer harvest-fields all green with grass again; The first sharp frosts
had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay With the hues of summer's
rainbow, or the meadow-flowers of May.
Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red, At
first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped;
Yet, even his
noontide glory fell chastened and subdued,
On the cornfields and the
orchards, and softly pictured wood.
And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night,
He wove with
golden shuttle the haze with yellow light;
Slanting through the
painted beeches, he glorified the hill; And, beneath it, pond and
meadow lay brighter, greener still.
And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky,
Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why;
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks,
Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.
From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks; But
even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. No sound was in
the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell, And the yellow
leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.
The summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry, Where
June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye; But
still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, Ungathered,
bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood.
Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere,
Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; Beneath,

the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold,
And glistened in the
slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold.
There wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain Bore
slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; Till broad and
red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last, And like a merry
guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed.
And to! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond,
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond,
Slowly o'er the
eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone,
And the sunset and the
moonrise were mingled into one!
As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away,
And deeper in
the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay; From many a brown
old farm-house, and hamlet without name,
Their milking and their
home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.
Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone
dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below;
The growing
pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,
And laughing eyes and
busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.
Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,
Talking their
old times over, the old men sat apart;
While up and down the
unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh
and shout, the happy children played.
Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to
light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of
the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, To the quaint
tune of some old psalm, a husking ballad sung.
THE CORN-SONG.
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard
Heap
high the golden corn
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out
her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The
orange from its