Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun, As smoke of battle o'er us, Their white horns glisten in the sun, Like plumes and crests before us.
We see them slowly climb the hill, As slow behind it sinking; Or, thronging close, from roadside rill, Or sunny lakelet, drinking.
Now crowding in the narrow road, In thick and struggling masses, They glare upon the teamster's load, Or rattling coach that passes.
Anon, with toss of horn and tail, And paw of hoof, and bellow, They leap some farmer's broken pale, O'er meadow-close or fallow.
Forth comes the startled goodman; forth Wife, children, house-dog, sally, Till once more on their dusty path The baffled truants rally.
We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony, Like those who grind their noses down On pastures bare and stony,-- Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs, And cows too lean for shadows, Disputing feebly with the frogs The crop of saw-grass meadows!
In our good drove, so sleek and fair, No bones of leanness rattle; No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there, Or Pharaoh's evil cattle.
Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand That fed him unrepining; The fatness of a goodly land In each dun hide is shining.
We've sought them where, in warmest nooks, The freshest feed is growing, By sweetest springs and clearest brooks Through honeysuckle flowing; Wherever hillsides, sloping south, Are bright with early 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 glossy green, The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and mends of flowers Our ploughs their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, Its harvest-time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home.
There, when the snows about us drift, And winter winds are cold, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silk Around their costly board; Give us the bowl of samp and milk, By homespun beauty poured!
Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth, And bless our farmer girls!
Then shame on all the proud and vain, Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn.
Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye, Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, The wheat-field to the fly.
But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God!
1847.
THE REFORMER.
ALL grim and soiled and brown with tan, I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, Smiting the godless shrines of man Along his path.