glory shone,

And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!

As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away,

And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay;

From many a brown old farm-house, and · hamlet without name, Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below; The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,

Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart;

While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.

Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung.

THE CORN-SONG.

HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,

Our harvest-fields with snow.

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift

Apollo showered of old, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly :

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God!

THE LUMBERMEN.

WILDLY round our woodland quarters,
Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;
Thickly down these swelling waters
Float his fallen leaves.

Through the tall and naked timber,
Column-like and old,
Gleam the sunsets of November,
From their skies of gold.

O'er us, to the southland heading,
Screams the gray wild-goose;
On the night-frost sounds the treading
Of the brindled moose.

Noiseless creeping, while we 're sleeping,
Frost his task-work plies;
Soon, his icy bridges heaping,
Shall our log-piles rise.

When, with sounds of smothered thunder,

On some night of rain,

Lake and river break asunder

Winter's weakened chain,

Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping
Half the peak in storm!

Where are mossy carpets better
Than the Persian weaves,
And than Eastern perfumes sweeter
Seem the fading leaves;

And a music wild and solemn,
From the pine-tree's height,
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume
On the wind of night;

Make we here our camp of winter ;
And, through sleet and snow,
Pitchy knot and beechen splinter
On our hearth shall glow.
Here, with mirth to lighten duty,
We shall lack alone

Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty,
Childhood's lisping tone.

But their hearth is brighter burning For our toil to-day;

And the welcome of returning

Shall our loss repay,

them

To the saw-mill's wheel,

Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear

them

With his teeth of steel.

Be it starlight, be it moonlight,
In these vales below,
When the earliest beams of sunlight
Streak the mountain's snow,
Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early,
To our hurrying feet,
And the forest echoes clearly
All our blows repeat.

Where the crystal Ambijejis
Stretches broad and clear,
And Millnoket's pine-black ridges
Hide the browsing deer:

Where, through lakes and wide morasses,
Or through rocky walls,

Swift and strong, Penobscot passes
White with foamy falls;

From the woods we come,

Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, Angels of our home!

Not for us the measured ringing
From the village spire,
Not for us the Sabbath singing

Of the sweet-voiced choir :
Ours the old, majestic temple,

Where God's brightness shines Down the dome so grand and ample, Propped by lofty pines !

Through each branch-enwoven skylight, Speaks He in the breeze,

As of old beneath the twilight

Of lost Eden's trees!

For his ear, the inward feeling
Needs no outward tongue;
He can see the spirit kneeling
While the axe is swung.

Heeding truth alone, and turning From the false and dim,

Are alike to Him.

Strike, then, comrades!

waiting

On our rugged toil;

Trade is

Far ships waiting for the freighting Of our woodland spoil!

Ships, whose traffic links these highlands,
Bleak and cold, of ours,
With the citron-planted islands

Of a clime of flowers;

To our frosts the tribute bringing
Of eternal heats;

In our lap of winter flinging
Tropic fruits and sweets.

Cheerly, on the axe of labor,
Let the sunbeams dance,
Better than the flash of sabre

Or the gleam of lance!
Strike! With every blow is given
Freer sun and sky,

And the long-hid earth to heaven
Looks, with wondering eye!

Loud behind us grow the murmurs
Of the age to come;

Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers,
Bearing harvest home!
Here her virgin lap with treasures
Shall the green earth fill;
Waving wheat and golden maize-ears
Crown each beechen hill.

Keep who will the city's alleys,

Take the smooth-shorn plain, Give to us the cedar valleys,

119

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Rocks and hills of Maine!
In our North-land, wild and woody,
Let us still have part:

Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,
Hold us to thy heart!

O, our free hearts beat the warmer
For thy breath of snow;
And our tread is all the firmer
For thy rocks below.

Freedom, hand in hand with labor,
Walketh strong and brave;
On the forehead of his neighbor
No man writeth Slave!

Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's
Pine-trees show its fires,

While from these dim forest gardens
Rise their blackened spires.
Up, my comrades! up and doing!
Manhood's rugged play

Still renewing, bravely hewing
Through the world our way!

SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away,

O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the

Mexican array,

Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither

rolls the storm we hear.

"Down the hills of Angostura still the

storm of battle rolls;

Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!" Who is losing? who is winning?"Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain."

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more. 'Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,

"

Like

and foeman, foot and horse, some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain

course.

Look forth once more, Ximena! “Ah! And I see the Northern rifles gleaming the smoke has rolled away; down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels; There the Northern horses thunder, with

the cannon at their heels.

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance!

Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball."