For the glare of suns oppressing,
Pitying weep!
On thy still seas met together,
Charmed Sleep!
Hear them swell a drowsy hymning,
Swans to silvery music swimming,
Floating with unruffled feather
O'er the deep.
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
Born at Ogden, New York, 1827—
EVENING AT THE FARM.
OVER the hill the farm-boy goes:
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;
The early dews are falling;
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows:
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling,—
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,
'Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"
Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;
In the waggon-shed stand yoke and plough;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;
The cooling dews are falling;-
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
And the whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling,—
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray,"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"
Now to her task the milk-maid goes:
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Looing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,
While the pleasant dews are falling;-
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,
Soothingly calling,—
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"
To supper at last the farmer goes:
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed;
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling;-
The housewife's hand has turn'd the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose:
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes
"Co', boss! co', boss; co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"
THE speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains gray and thin.
But cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him, as he sings,
White as the down of angels' wings.
I watch the slow flakes as they fall
On bank and briar and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.
On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden-walk;
And lovingly round tatter'd stalk
And shivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.
The hooded beehive, small and low,
Stands like a maiden in the snow;
And the old door-slab is half hid
Under an alabaster lid.
All day it snows: the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muffled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn;
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine;
The ragged bramble, dwarf'd and old,
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In surplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
But in my inmost ear is heard
The music of a holier bird;
And heavenly thoughts, as soft and white
As snow-flakes, on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with peace each bruisèd part,
Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.
THE OLD CONTINENTALS.
(Carmen bellicosum.)
In their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,
While the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging
Cannon-shot;
When the files
Of the Isles,
From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of
And grummer, grummer, grummer, roll'd the roll of the drummer,
Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,
Stood our sires;
While the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly,
Blazed the fires;
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded
And louder, louder, louder, crack'd the black gunpowder, Cracking amain !
Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's
Cannoneers;
And the "villainous saltpetre"
Rang a fierce, discordant metre
Round our ears.
As the swift
Storm-drift,
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangour
On our flanks;
Then higher, higher, higher, burn'd the old-fashion'd fire Through the ranks!
Then the bare-headed Colonel
Gallop'd through the white infernal
Powder-cloud;
And his broadsword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing,
Trumpet-loud.
Then the blue
Bullets flew,
And the trooper-jackets redden'd at the touch of the leaden
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roar'd the iron six-pounder,
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