Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again, At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain; Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place, where human harvests grow! Longfellow. AUTUMN IN AMERICA. With what a glory comes and goes the year! Comes down upon the Autumn sun, and with There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the Autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillowed clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside aweary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings; And merrily, with oft repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing floor the busy flail. O, what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart goes forth, Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings; He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Longfellow. TWILIGHT. The twilight is sad and cloudy, But in the fisherman's cottage Close, close it is pressed to the window, Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise. And a woman's waving shadow Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, bleak and wild, And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the colour from her cheek? Longfellow. THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. We sat within the farm-house old, Not far away we saw the port― The strange, old fashioned, silent town,— The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again; The first slight swerving of the heart, And leave it still unsaid in part, The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap, and then expire. K |