Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/223

The farmer, watchful lest the skies may lower,
    Thrusts his sharp sickle mid the bearded grain;
While sportive voices, strong in childhood's power,
    With merry music wake the village plain,
And toil comes forth refresh'd, and age is young again.

The outgoings of mild eve! the folded rose;
    Soft slumber settling on the lily's bell;
The solemn forest lull'd to deep repose,
    While restless winds no more its murmurs swell;
The stars emerging from their secret cell,
    A silent night-watch o'er the world to keep;
And then the queenly moon, attended well,
    Who o'er the mighty arch of heaven doth sweep,
Speaking of Nature's King in language still and deep.

The charms of eve how sweet, he best can say,
    Who, sickening at the city's dust and noise,
And selfish arts that Mammon's votaries sway,
    Turns to his home to taste its simple joys;
There, climbing on his knee, his ruddy boys
    Wake that warm thrill which every care repays,
And fondly hasting from her baby-toys,
    His prattling daughter seeks a father's gaze,
And gives that tender smile which o'er his slumber plays.

She, too, who wins her bread by toil severe,
    And from her home at early morn must go
To earn the bread that dries her children's tear,
    How hails her heart, the sun declining low!
Love nerves the foot that else were sad and slow,
    And when afar her lowly roof she spies,
Forgot is all her lot of scorn and wo;