Book Fifth

The lamp, renewed, still sheds a cheerful light,
Hope lends a halo to its steady blaze;
And through the casement beam the westward stars,
Taking their noiseless way, and shining still,
Though sleeps the world and there are few to note.
And thus, encouraged by example high,
The Muse awakes her simple theme and sings,
And breathes, in the attentive air of night,
The song to-morrow may refuse to hear.
When comes the tumult of the noisy day,
And the great city, like a cataract, swells,
Pouring its drowning tide of toil and trade,
Not Pan's own pipe might bid it turn and hark,
And, hearkening, be refreshed, — much less the tune
Floating unskilful from these rustic stops.
Oh, thou to-morrow! wherefore wilt thou rise,
And shake the quiet from thy garment's fold,
E'en as a lion shakes the dream of peace
From out his mane, and springs upon his prey?
As on the Sabbath, birds and brooks will sing,
The flowers come forth and gentle airs shall breathe,
Laden with perfume; yet wilt thou go forth,
Girded with love of transient gain and power,
As if the world of beauty and of song
Behind the gates of yesterday lay closed!
Oh, rapid age, whence tends thy noisy course?
Thy roaring wheels affright me, and I shrink —
Shrink to the wayside hedge, and stand appalled;
And, 'mid the smoke and discord, blindly ask
The question none will spare the time to answer!
Whence tends thy course? To that white mart of Peace
Where Wisdom, on the perfect throne of Knowledge,
Reigns absolute, and Justice, loving all,
And by all loved, hath dropped her useless scales?
Or to the realm of Discord, where the walls,
For their stupendous height, shall one day fall,
With louder ruin, round the homes of men;
And this huge tower aspiring to the heavens,
Which Science daily rears, be stayed at last
With multitudinous jargon of wild tongues?
Vain question, where no voice will make reply.
Time only answers in the distant future,
So far his words faint in the midway air,
Or come in broken murmurs, like the sea's,
Dying uncomprehended. Still my soul
Holds faith in man and in his progress forth;
Since not alone 'tis his, but God's.

Day dawns,
And with it swell the sounds, afar and near,
Of lowing cattle and the crowing cocks.
From farm to farm the wakening signals run,
And the blue smoke ascends. The sheep, released,
Leap the low bars and, following their bell,
Go bleating to the pasture. And, anon,
The ploughman drives his team into the field,
And treads the furrow till the horn recalls.
Meanwhile the kine their generous udders yield,
And fill the sounding pail, till it o'erruns,
And drips the path with foam. Then, at the spring,
The snowy liquid poured in careful rows,
And on the watery slabs arranged to cool,
Gleams like a series of full moons. Afar
The giant forge, at labour 'mid the hills,
Throbs sullen thunder from its iron heart,
And 'neath yon poplar, bursting into bloom,
The lesser anvil rings. While from the cot
Which on the breezy upland greets the east,
The windows blazing with the morning red,
The loom makes answer with its busy beat.

Look in to-day upon the murmuring school.
There sits the old man at his wonted desk,
Round which the scholars stand in crescent rows,
Class after class, the oldest coming first;
Then, gradually descending, till the child
In russet slip comes tottering to his feet,
And finds a place upon the knee of age,
Where dimpled fingers point the letters wrong,
Or stray unchided to the master's watch-seals.
How like a hive, the busy school house hums!
Till comes the hour of recess, when in streams,
With laughter loud, they pour into the air,
And join in various games. Two desks there are,
Which hold for all especial charms; and oft
The smiling children mark them out, and point
On one the deep carved "O." Six times the Spring
Hath breathed its odours round the sacred place,
Since here the boy engraved the charmed cypher;
And yearly the tradition is passed down,
"There sat Olivia, and here Arthur sat."
Now bloom the orchards, and the noisy bees
Sing like a wind among the snowy limbs.
The occupants of neighbouring garden hives
Are there, in full communities, to mine
The odorous Eldorado; and the wasp
Dropping his long legs, like a flying crane,
Lights on the flower, and, with his ready sting,
Threats the intruder. There the humble-bee
Comes booming, and departs with laden thighs.
The yellow-jacket, small and full of spite,
Bedecked in livery of golden lace,
Comes with the fretful arrogance of one
Who plays the master, though himself a slave;
And over all, the tyrant of the hour,
The kingbird, hovers, darting on his prey;
And takes the ventured argosy of sweets,Since this passage was written, the supposed fact has become a disputed question. I shall be glad to find that I have done this little marauder injustice.
Then boasts his conquest on the adjacent branch,
Where, like a pirate hauled against the wind,
He waits another sail. From limb to limb,
The birds which here delight to build their nests —
The blue-bird, and the robin, and the small
Gray wood-pecker — now flit among the flowers,
Until the air is full of life and song,
As it is full of perfume. Now begins
The housewife's happiest season of the year.
The ground, already broken by the spade —
The beds, made level by the passing rake —
The almanac consulted, and the signs
Conspiring favour — forth with apron full
Of choicest seeds, the best which last year gave,
She sallies to the garden where, all day,
Breathing the pleasant odour of the mould,
She bends and plants, while, to her eye of hope,
Here springs the early pea, and there the bean,
The lettuce and the radish, and what else
Her culinary providence requires.
But chief of all, with careful hands, she sets
The slips, and bulbs, and seeds which, round each bed,
Shall make a bright embroidery of flowers.
Thus the dame Baldwin in her garden bends.
Meanwhile, Olivia by the mellow air,
Her winter task of flax not wholly spun,
Is woo'd unto the porch, where at her wheel,
Where sat her grandma generations since,
She sits and sings, not loud but low.
The little wren to listen stops his song,
And wonders on the woodbine. Thus she sings: —

"A damsel dwelt in a mansion old,
Her eyes were blue, her hair was blonde;
The hills were bright, the sky was gold,
Where rose the flaming sun beyond.

The red stream of the rising day
Set all her windows east a-glow,
And on her face the morning ray
Still stole, as it were loth to go.

And there she spun the silver flax,
But guessed not what the woof would be,
While, through her hands of snowy wax,
The white thread ran incessantly.

As fair as any queen, in sooth,
She toiled and held a noble trust;
Her heart had whispered this one truth —
What work would brighten, sloth would rust.

'There is a loom,' she said, 'receives
Whatever skeins my reel shall bear;
There is a weaver, daily weaves
The woof which I, perforce, must wear.

And be the thread or coarse or fine,
The loom is still the sure receiver;
Whate'er I spin, the same is mine,
Returned in full from Time the weaver!'"