Hesperus Part 6

A song, a song for the good old Flail, That our fathers used before us; A song for the Flail, and the faces hale Of the queenly dames that bore us!

We are old nature's peers, Right royal cavaliers!

Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right--our sceptre is the Flail.

III.

Fair was the maid, and lovely as the morn From starry Night and rosy Twilight born, Within whose mind a rivulet of song Rehea.r.s.ed the strains that from her lips ere long Welled free and sparkling, as the vocal woods Repeat the day-spring's sweetest interludes.

Her gentle eyes' serenest depths of blue Shrined love and truth, and all their retinue; The health and beauty of her youthful face Made it the Harem of each maiden grace; And such perfection blended with her air, She seemed some stately G.o.ddess moving there: Beholding her, you thought she might have been The long-lost, flower-loving Proserpine:

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AN AUTUMN CHANGE.

"Oh, dreamy autumn days!

I seek your faded ways, As one who calmly strays Through visions of the past; I walk the golden hours, And where I gathered flowers The stricken leaves in showers Are hurled upon the blast."

Thus mused the lonely maid, As through the autumn glade, With pensive heart, she strayed, Regretting Love's delay; In vain the traitor flies!

To pleading lips and eyes, Sweet looks, and tender sighs, He falls an easy prey.

"Oh, dreamy autumn days!

I tread your bridal ways, As one who homeward strays, Through realms divinely fair; I walk Love's radiant hours, Fragrant with pa.s.sion flowers, And blessings fall like dowers Down the elysian air."

Thus mused the maiden now, With sunny heart and brow, For Love had turned his prow

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Towards the Golden Isles, Where from Pierean springs The soul of Music sings Its sweet imaginings, Through all the Land of Smiles.

IV.

Up the wide chimney rolls the social fire, Warming the hearts of matron, youth, and sire; Painting such grotesque shadows on the wall, The stripling looms a giant stout and tall, While they whose statures reach the common height Seem spectres mocking the hilarious night.

From hand to hand the ripened fruit went round, And rural sports a pleased acceptance found; The youthful fiddler on his three-legged stool, Fancied himself at least an Ole Bull; Some easy b.u.mpkin, seated on the floor, Hunted the slipper till his ribs were sore; Some chose the graceful waltz or lively reel, While deeper heads the chess battalions wheel Till some old veteran, compelled to yield, More brave than skilful, vanquished, quits the field.

As a flushed harper, when the doubtful fight Favors the prowess of some stately knight, In stirring numbers of triumphal song Upholds the spirits of the victor throng, A st.u.r.dy ploughboy, wedded to the soil, Thus sung the praises of the partner of his toil:

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THE SOLDIERS OF THE PLOUGH.

No maiden dream, nor fancy theme, Brown Labour's muse would sing; Her stately mien and russet sheen Demand a stronger wing, Long ages since, the sage, the prince, The man of lordly brow, All honour gave that army brave, The Soldiers of the Plough.

Kind heaven speed the Plough!

And bless the hands that guide it; G.o.d gives the seed-- The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.

In every land, the toiling hand Is blest as it deserves; Not so the race who, in disgrace, From honest labour swerves.

From fairest bowers bring rarest flowers, To deck the swarthy brow Of those whose toil improves the soil, The Soldiers of the Plough.

Kind heaven speed the Plough!

And bless the hands that guide it; G.o.d gives the seed-- The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.

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Blest is his lot, in hall or cot, Who lives as nature wills, Who pours his corn from Ceres' horn, And quaffs his native rills!

No breeze that sweeps trade's stormy deeps, Can touch his golden prow; Their foes are few, their lives are true, The Soldiers of the Plough.

Kind heaven speed the Plough!

And bless the hands that guide it; G.o.d gives the seed-- The bread we need, Man's labour must provide it.

V.

Fast sped the rus.h.i.+ng chariot of the Hours.

Without, the Harvest Moon, through fleecy bowers Of hazy cloudlets, swept her graceful way, Proud as an empress on her marriage-day; The admiring planets lit her stately march With smiles that gleamed along the silent arch, And all the starry midnight blazed with light, As if 'twere earth and heaven's nuptial-night; The c.o.c.k crowed, certain that the day had broke, The aged house-dog suddenly awoke, And bayed so loud a challenge to the moon, From the old orchard fled the thievish 'c.o.o.n; Within, the lightest hearts that ever beat Still found their harmless pleasures pure and sweet; The fire still burned on the capacious hearth, In sympathy with the redundant mirth;

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Old graybeards felt the glow of youth revive, Old matrons smiled upon the human hive, Where life's rare nectar, fit for G.o.ds to sip, In forfeit kisses pa.s.sed from lip to lip.

Be hushed rude Mirth! as merry as the May Is she who comes to sing her roundelay:

CLAIRE.

Whither now, blus.h.i.+ng Claire?

Maid of the sylph-like air, Blooming and debonair, Whither so early?

Chasing the merry morn, Down through the golden corn?

List'ning the hunter's horn Ring through the barley?

"Flowerets fresh and fair,"

Answered the blus.h.i.+ng Claire, "Fit for my bridal hair, Bloom 'mongst the barley; Hark! 'tis the hunter's horn, Waking the sylvan morn, And through the yellow corn Comes my brave Charlie."

Through the dew-dripping grain Pressed the heart-stricken swain, Crushed with a weight of pain,

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Drooped like the barley; Ah! timid shepherd boy!

Man's love should ne'er be coy, Sweet is Claire's maiden joy, Kissing her Charlie!

VI.

A pleasant soul as ever trilled a song Was hers who warbled "Claire." All the day long Her voice was ringing like a bridal bell; Gladness and joy leaped up at every swell; And love was deeper, warmer, for the tone That clasped the heart like an enchanted zone.

A youth was there more comely than the rest, One who could turn a furrow with the best, Compete for manly strength and portly air, Or wield a scythe with any reaper there.

The spirit of her voice had moved above The waters of his soul, and waked his song to Love:

BALLAD.

"Come tell me, merry Brooklet, of a gentle Maid I seek, Thou'lt know her by the freshness of the rose upon her cheek; Her eyes are chaste and tender, and so serenely bright, You can read her heart's pure secrets by their warm religious light."

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