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|0 walk with the breeze upon one's brow, to trample the level grass exuberant with freshness, to climb upon the mountain, to follow through the meadows some thread of water gliding under rushes and water-plants,—I give you my word for it, there is happiness in this. At this contact with healthy and natural things, the follies of the world drop off as drop the dead leaves when the spring sap rises and the young leaves put forth.

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No helpmates teach the docile steed his road

(Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad):

But unassisted, through each toilsome day,

With smiling brow the ploug'xman cleaves his way.

Draws his fresh parallels, and, widening still.

Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill.

Strong on the wing his busy followers play.

Where writhing earthworms meet the unwelcome day,

Till all is changed, and hill and level down

Assume a livery of sober brown;

Again disturbed, when Giles with weaning strides

From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides.

His heels deep sinking, every step he goes,

Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes.

The work is done; no more to man is given: The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven. ******

His simple errand done, he homeward hies;
Another instantly its place supplies.
The clattering dairy-maid, immersed in steam.
Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream.
Bawls out, "Go fetch the cows!"—he hears no
more;

For pigs and ducks and turkeys throng the door.
And sitting hens for constant war prepared.—
A concert strange to that which late he heard.
Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes;
With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows;

Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze,
Or hear the summons with un idle gaze.
For well they know the cow-yard yields no
more

Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store.
Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow,
The right of conquest all the law they know;
The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed.
And one superior always takes the lead,
1= ever foremost whereso'er they stray,
Allowed precedence, undisputed sway:
With jealous pride her station is maintained,
For many a broil that post of honor gained.
At home, the yard affords a grateful scene,
For spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean.
Thence from its chalky bed behold conveyed
The rich manure that drenching winter made,
Which, piled near home, grows green with many
a weed,

A promised nutriment for autumn's seed.

Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles;

The mistress, too, and followed close by Giles.

A friendly tripod forms their humble seat.

With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet.

Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray

Begins the work, begins the simple lay;

The full-charged udder yields its willing stream

While Mary sings some lover's amorous dream;

And crouching Giles, beneath a neighboring tree,

Tugs o'er his pail and chants with equal glee;

Whose hat with battered brim, and nap so bare,

From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair,—

A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,

An unambitious, peaceable cockade.

As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid

The mistress yields beside her rosy maid;

With joy she views her plenteous reeking store,

And bears a brimmer to the dairy door;

Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead to roam,

Till eve again recall them loaded home.

Robert Bloomfield.

FAUM

|?V~ER the hills the farm-boy goes.
f His shadow lengthened along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar tre(;, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling; —
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling, —
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
Farther, farther, over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,—

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'I co'! *'

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day;

Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough;

The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,

The cooling dews are falling; —
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,

His cattle calling. —
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
"While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray, —
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

SONG.

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.

The cattle come crowding through the gate,

Lowing, pushing, little and great;

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,

The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump.

While the pleasant dews arc falling;
The new-milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pall flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,—
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,

Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes,
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;

The heavy dews are falling.
The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose;
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling, —
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid in her dreams
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,

Murmuring. -'So, boss! so!"

John Townsend Trowbridge.

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The helmet and the spear

Are twined with the laurel wreath: But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear;

And blood-spots rust beneath.

I love to see the field

That is moist with purple stain,
But not where bullet, sword and shield

Lie strewn with the gory slain.

No, no; 'tis where the sun

Shoots down his eloudless beams.

Till rich and bursting juice-drops run
On the vineyard earth in streams.

My glowing heart beats high

At the sight of shining gold:
But it is not that which the miser's eye

Delighteth to behold.

A brighter wealth by far
Thau the deep mine's yellow vein,

SOXG.

Is seen around in the fair hills crowned
With sheaves of burnished grain.

Look forth thou thoughtless one,

Whose proud knee never bends;
Take thou the bread that's daily spread,

But think on Him who sends.

Look forth, ye toiling men,

Though little ye possess, —
Be glad that dearth is not on earth

To make that little less.

Let the song of praise he poured

In gratitude and joy.
By the rich man with his garners stored

And the ragged gleaner-boy.

The feast that Nature gives

Is not for one alone;
'Tis shared by the meanest slave that lives

And the tenant of a throne.

Then glory to the steel

That shines in the reaper's hand,
And thanks to Him who has blest the seed

And crowned the harvest laud.

Eliza Cooe.

THE FARMER'S AVIFE.

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Demure, arch humor's ambush in
The clear curves of her dimpled chin.
Ah! guileless creature, hale and good.
Ah! fount of wholesome womanhood.
Far from the world's unhallowed strife!
God's blessing on the farmer's wife.

I love to mark her matron charms,

Her fearless steps through household ways, Her sun-burnt hauds and buxom arms.

Her waist unboimd by torturing stays;
Blithe as a bee, with busy care,
She's here, she's there, she's everywhere;
Long ere the clock has struck for noon
Home chords of toil are all in tune:
And from each richly bounteous hour
She drains its use, as bees a flower.
Apart from Passion's pain and strife.
Peace gently girds the Farmer's Wife!

Homeward (his daily labors done)
The stalwart farmer slowly plods,

From battling, between shade and sun.
With sullen glebe and stubborn sods.

Her welcome on his spirit bowed

Is sunshine flashing on a cloud!

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