Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/265

18^0-40.] EDWARD A. M'LAUGHLIN 249 The loves and graces shall commingle here, To charm the queenly City of the West ; Her stately youth, with noble warmth impress'd. Her graceful daughters, smiling as the May— ApoUos these, and Hebes those confess'd ; Bloom in her warm and fertilizing ray, While round their happy sires, the cherub infants play. So sings the Muse, as she with fancy's eye. Scans, from imagination's lofty height, Thy radiant beaming day — where it doth lie In the deep future ; glowing on the night From whose dark womb, empires un- vail to light : Mantled, and diademed, and sceptered there, Thou waitest but the advent of thy flight, When, like a royal Queen, stately and fair, The City of the West ascends the regal chair. HARVEST SONG. The smiling Morn, in splendor clad. Arrays the orient sky In rosy light, to cheer the sad. And Nature beautify : She calls the yeoman from his couch. To tread the burthened sod. Where Ceres waves her flaming torch. And yellow harvests nod. And now we move a jovial band. Where health and strength disclose. To reap from Nature's open hand The blessings she bestows : Far as the horizon extends, Where'er we turn to view. The varied landscape lowly bends. And crowned with plenty too. The vigorous youths the toil begin. The sires bring up the rear ; Who gets first through a boon shall win From her he holds most dear. With many a jest and many a song, The platoons start away — Saturn ne'er led a braver throng Than treads the field to-day. 'Tis noon : we seek the welcome glade. To take our midday rest ; Stretched on the sward, beneath the shade. Till nature is refreshed : A rich repast full soon is spread. Our table is the ground. And now and then, to damp the bread. We pass the glass around. The hour is up — we haste away To range the field once more. And cheer the after-part of day As in the morn before: Some rake the gravel clean and clear, Our work is done in brief; While others follow in the rear. To bind the yellow sheaf. Bright Phoebus sinks in western skies, The festal is begun ; We little care how swift time flies. When our day's work is done. The sportive horn sounds through the vale, The supper hour is come; With quickened step we cross the dale, And gaily travel home.