Book Fifteenth

When I recount the pleasant sights of earth —
Fair childhood blowing bubbles in the sun —
A pleasure party, in a moonlit barque;
The little sail with breeze and music swelled —
A dancing wreath of children crowning May —
A bridal group across a distant field
Returning, with gay footsteps, from the church —
I can recall no brighter, nobler scene,
Than men at labour mid the waving grain,
When summer, with its alchemy, transmutes
The crops from green to gold! The harvest sun
Burns broad and white above the yellowing world,
Which, for its plenty, laughs a rustling laugh;
A voice which cheers the hearts of those who strode,
Athwart the yielding ground, with swinging hands,
In springtime, casting bread upon the earth,
To be returned a hundred fold. The air
Hangs hot and silent, save where yonder bird,
The meadow-lark, darts into sudden voice
From out the grain, and in the next tree lights,
And, panting, sings no more; or where, perchance,
The Oriole, careless of its swinging nest,
From whence the young have flown, a moment streaks
The sky with fire and song, and then gives o'er;
Or yon tricoloured bird, with nervous haste
Ascending spirally the sapless trunk,
Drums loudly as he climbs; or locust hid
Swift springs his shrilly rattle; or the small
Green insect, greener than the grass it bends,
With the field cricket lifts its jarring voice;
While his grey brother, on ambitious wings,
Flickers his short flight down the summer road,
Oft dropping in the sultry sand. Behold
The yellow, dainty-pinioned swarm arise,
On simultaneous wings, as soars a flame;
Or, settling where the small spring blots the dust,
Glow like a golden group of butter-cups.

What a calm realm of sunshine gleams the world!
The aspen only feels a phantom breath;
Beneath the great tree's shadow in the field
The silent cattle stand; and in the cool
Deep shade of garden shrubs the fowls are hid,
Fluttering the dust upon their wings, with eye
Suspicious watching oft the hawk which sails,
Noiseless as sleep; upon the lofty air.
Beside the spring, where the tall sycamore,
And one wide willow, roof the cooling spot,
The dairy maid is singing mid her pans,
And skimming off the deep and yellow cream,
While floats abroad the sweet delicious scent
Of cedar from the scalded churn. And now,
With many a rumbling splash, the dasher flies,
Forcing the cream which oozes at the lid.
At length the gathering weight, which lifts and falls,
Denotes the labour through. In days like these,
An hour suffices to transmute the mass,
Which oft, in winter, whirls from morn till noon,
Or later still, refusing to obey —
Withheld, as some have deemed, by witch's charm.
Along the wayside fence, by briery roads,
The ruddy children, with their fingers stained,
Collect the berries which, with milk combined,
Shall to the reaper's hearty palate give
The luscious dessert when the meat is past.
The full fields, like a shepherd's flock in spring,
Yield up their fleeces, till the well-bound sheaves,
In glowing stacks, nod o'er the stubbled farm.
Now sounds the horn 'neath the meridian sun;
And the brown labourers, hurrying to the call,
Beside the deep well lave their heated brows;
Where oft the bucket from the windlass drops,
Rattling till deluged, then, ascending slow,
Comes dripping to the brink, and sends abroad
A cool and grateful freshness. Then behold
Where sweeps the table wide, from door to door,
Looking from east to west. With open brow
The generous matron welcomes in the group;
And there Olivia, not too proud to tend,
But with a flush of pleasure on her face,
Glides gracefully from chair to chair, and helps
The glowing reaper's plate; here fills the glass
With odorous cider, sparkling as it flows,
Or draws the bowl with liquid from the churn,
Cooled at the spring beside the yellow prints.
Here smokes the ample joint, and steaming there
The yellow ears of maize inviting stand,
Fresh from the cauldron drained — delicious food,
To other lands unknown — with much beside.
When this is past, the berries crown the board,
The whortle from the wood, and those at morn
Plucked from the wayside briers. The garden, too,
And orchard lend their fulness to the hour;
For 'tis the season when the generous year
Pours from his plenteous horn the ripened fruit —
The mellow peach, and bursting purple plum,
The early apple, and the golden pear;
But chiefly the huge melon which, when ripe,
Yields, to the pressing hands and listening ear,
A crisp and frosty sound, from out its heart
Of crimson snow, that calls the thirsty knife.
Thus flies the noon, until the heated fields
Recall to labour, and the day goes by.
Now, when the eve sets in, and one by one
The stars come leaping o'er the eastern bar,
And the great moon, aflush with summer heat,
Climbs lazily along the harvest sky —
Where dart the fire-flies with eccentric course,
Oping their frequent dainty lantern-doors,
As if to find a treasure lost — the group
Of reapers gather on the social porch,
And pass the shadowy hour in language meet
The season and the place. And much they talk
Of news which lately, from the far off West,The time represented in this poem, was about the year 1832, at which period, as many will remember, the "backwoods fever" was especially prevalent.
Startled the calm community; as when
Some foreign sound disturbs the labouring hive —
Or bee, returning from exploring search,
Proclaims a land of more enticing sweets,
And wakes a general buzz throughout the swarm.
The younger men are restless to be gone,
And descant largely on the wild pursuit
Of game, exhaustless in the boundless woods.
Some shake the doubtful head — the older these —
And tell of labours long to be endured —
The battle with the forest, and the stern
Privation to be borne, where oft the call
Of chill necessity affrights the soul;
Repeating tales their childhood frequent heard
From sires who mid these hills and valley came,
And, with the guardian fire-arm at their side,
Laid the loud axe unto the woodland foot.
But what was meant to caution and deter,
Inflames the youthful fancy and desire;
And even age detects along his veins
A curious yet an unacknowledged glow,
And feels an impulse rising in his breast
He hath not felt for years; and, to conceal
How much his spirit echoes younger thought,
Puts by the subject with some careless jest,
And turns the converse on to-morrow's task.
Now see where strides, o'er many a homeward field
The hired labourer to his lowly cot:
The shouldered sickle, by the moonshine lit,
Gleams like a rising crescent. At the door
His happy wife, and happier children, stand
And welcome his return. Then to his couch,
To others hard, luxurious to him,
Softened by toil, he turns and drains the cup —
The drowning cup of sleep — unto the dregs.