Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue,
Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit,
From the saffron orchis and lupin blue,
And those like the foam on my courser's bit.
One steed and one saddle, us both shall bear,
One hand of each on the bridle meet,
And beneath the wrist that entwines me there,
An answering pulse from my heart shall beat.
I will sing thee many a joyous lay,
As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side,
While the winds that over the prairie play,
Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride.
Our home shall be by the cool, bright streams,
Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat,
And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams
Through the branches around our lodge that meet.
Then wend with me, to the deep woods, wend,
Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep,
Where no watching eye shall over us bend,
Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep!
UP, comrades, up! the morn's awake
Upon the mountain side,
The curlew's wing hath swept the lake,
And the deer hath left the tangled brake,
To drink from the limpid tide.
Up, comrades, up! the mead lark's note
And the plover's cry o'er the prairie float;
The squirrel he springs from his covert now,
To prank it away on the chestnut bough,
Where the oriole's pendent nest, high up,
Is rock'd on the swaying trees;
While the humbird sips from the harebell's cup,
As it bends to the morning breeze.
Up, comrades, up! our shallops grate
Upon the pebbly strand,
And our stalwart hounds impatient wait
To spring from the huntsman's hand.
NOT a leaf on the tree, not a bud in the hollow,
Where late swung the blue-bell, and blossom'd the rose;
And hush'd is the cry of the swift-darting swallow
That circled the lake in the twilight's dim close.
Gone, gone are the woodbine and sweet-scented brier
That bloom'd o'er the hillock, and gladden'd the vale;
And the vine that uplifted its green-pointed spire
Hangs drooping and sere on the frost-cover'd pale.
And hark to the gush of the deep-welling fountain
That prattled and shone in the light of the moon;
Soon, soon shall its rushing be still on the mountain,
And lock'd up in silence its frolicsome tune.
Then heap up the hearthstone with dry forest branches,
And gather about me, my children, in glee;
For cold on the upland the stormy wind launches,
And dear is the home of my loved one to me.
COME, brothers, arouse, let the owl go to rest,
Oh! the summer sun's in the sky;
The bee's on the wing and the hawk's in his nest,
And the river runs merrily by.
Our mother, the world, a good mother is she,
Says to toil is to welcome her fare;
Some bounty she hangs us on every tree,
And blesses us in the sweet air.
Oh, come, brothers, arouse, &c.
And this is the life for a man, a man,
And this is the life for me-
The prince may boast if he can, he can,
But he never was half so free.
Our mother, the world, a good mother is she,
Says to toil is to welcome her fare;
Some bounty she hangs on every tree,
And blesses us in the sweet air.
Oh, come, brothers, arouse, &c.
THE REAPER ON THE PLAIN.
C. G. EASTMAN.
BENDING o'er his ickle
'Mid the yellow grain,
Lo! the sturdy reaper,
Reaping on the plain;
Singing as the sickle
Gathers to his hand,
Rustling in its ripeness,
The glory of his land.
Mark the grain before him,
Swaying in the wind,
And the even gavel
Following behind.
Bound in armful bundles,
Standing one by one,
The yester' morning's labour
Ripens in the sun.
Long I've stood and ponder'd,
Gazing from the hill,
While the sturdy reaper
Sung and laboured still;
Bending o'er his sickle,
'Mid the yellow grain,
Happy and contented,
Reaping on the plain.
And as upon my journey,
I leave the maple tree,
Thinking of the difference
Between the man and me,
I turn again to see him
Reaping on the plain,
And almost wish my labour.
Were the sickle and the grain.
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood!
When fond recollection presents them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
*This beautiful domestic poem has been set to music by various composers. In the form of song and recitation, it has long been a favourite in the United States.
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure,
For often at noon, when return'd from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing,
How quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips;
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd with the nectar that JUPITER Sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sigh for the bucket that hangs in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in the well.
He shoulders his axe for the woods, and away
Hies over the fields at the dawn of the day,
And merrily whistles some tune as he goes,
So heartily trudging along through the snows.
His dog scents his track, and pursues to a mark,
Now sending afar the shrill tones of his bark-
Then answering the echo that comes back again
Through the clear air of morn, o'er valley and plain.
* Rufus Griswold, the industrious compiler of the "Poets and Poetry of America," gives the above a place in his repository of lyric offerings. The tune that has been wedded to "The Woodman" is most unsatisfactory; and we are inclined to Mink, with General Morris, that such beautiful words deserved a better fate.
And now in the forest the woodman doth stand:
His eye marks the victims to fall by his hand,
While true to its aim is the ready axe found,
And quick do its blows through the woodland resound.
The proud tree low bendeth its vigorous form,
Whose freshness and strength have braved many a storm;
And the sturdy oak shakes that ne'er trembled before,
Though the years of his glory outnumber threescore.
They fall side by side-just as man in his prime
Lies down with the locks that are whitened by time:
The trees which are felled into ashes will burn,
As man, by Death's blow, unto dust will return.
But twilight approaches; the woodman and dog
Come plodding together through snowdrift and bog;
The axe again shouldered, its day's work hath done;
The woodman is hungry—the dog wants his bone.
Oh, home is then sweet, and the evening repast!
But the brow of the woodman with thought is o'ercast;
He is conning a truth to be tested by all—
That man, like the trees of the forest, must fall.
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