Eye him with jealousy. Who, more than I,
Should know the advantage of a well-stored mind?
Hence am I magistrate; and he may be,
As he is like to be, the people's choice,
And take his seat in Congress. Then remark
What honor follows, which must e'en reach us."
To which the wife-" Were he the Governor,
I would not bate a jot what I have said.
Where goes my liking not, I ask no honor.
He is no choice of mine. You may despise
The dream I told you; but I say his eye
Is just the eye that glittered in the snake;
So like that, when he looks at me, I shudder,
And chiefly when he smiles. And he wears rings-
I like not that-the snake was also ringed."
"Tush, woman!" cries the squire, interrupting;
"Look Reason in the face, and put to blush
Your childish superstition! Answer this:
Who hath the largest farm in all the State?
Who the best cattle? Who the fullest purse?
And is not this his heir ?" The spouse replies,
With bitterness which gives each sentence strength:
"How was the farm procured? Bit after bit,
By cunning tricks of law. If each had theirs-
The poor man, and the widow, and the orphan-
Those cattle would go home to different stalls.
Case after case hath come to you for trial;
And you should know-for it hath oft been said,
Oft been a taunt our children heard at school-
That you gave favor 'gainst the poor man's cause.
Oh, Walters, many a time as I have heard
Some neighbor here recount to you his wrongs,
My heart has ached, and indignation flamed,
Until I wished that, in your icy stead,
I might sit there and hold the whip of Justice!
He, too, is maker of that poison drug
Which blights the land with poverty and woe.
His still-house knows no rest, by day or night,
Until one needs must think a demon tends it.
Oh, he hath much to answer for, and grows
More fat in sin than body! E'en the swine
He yearly bloats for slaughter at his troughs
Roll in less ugliness than he to me."
The husband, angered, scarce can find reply;
He feels the truth, but will not leave his point;
His judgment, like a wayward child rebuked,
Grows sullen and deterniined in the wrong,
But presently responds :-"Well, say no more;
When weds the maid, the maid shall have her choice.
And if it be this youth-s
-so let it be."
To which the wife makes answer with resolve:
"I shall forbid, and if against my voice,
Encouraged on by you, the girl shall go,
Then be what mischief follows at your door-
I'll none of it." The voices cease; and now
The stars of midnight glimmer o'er the vale;
The wheelwright's gate swings in the silent dark,
And one lone rider occupies the road.
THE lamp, renewed, still sheds a cheerful light,
Hope lends a halo to its steady blaze;
And through the casement beam the westward stars,
Taking their noiseless way, and shining still,
Though sleeps the world and there are few to note.
And thus, encouraged by example high,
The Muse awakes her simple theme and sings,
And breathes, in the attentive ear of night,
The song to-morrow may refuse to hear.
When comes the tumult of the noisy day,
And the great city, like a cataract, swells,
Pouring its drowning tide of toil and trade;
Not Pan's own pipe might bid it turn and hark,
And, hearkening, be refreshed, much less the tune
Floating unskilful from these rustic stops.
Oh, thou To-morrow! wherefore wilt thou rise,
And shake the quiet from thy garment's fold,
E'en as a lion shakes the dream of peace
From out his mane, and springs upon his prey?
As on the Sabbath, birds and brooks will sing,
The flowers come forth, and gentle airs shall breathe.
Laden with perfume; yet wilt thou go forth,
Girded with love of transient gain and power
As if the world of beauty and of song
Behind the gates of yesterday lay closed!
Oh, rapid Age, where tends thy noisy course?
Thy roaring wheels affright me, and I shrink-
Shrink to the wayside hedge, and stand appalled;
And, 'mid the smoke and discord, blindly ask
The question none will spare the time to answer!
Where tends thy course? To that white mart of Peace
Where Wisdom, on the perfect throne of Knowledge,
Reigns absolute, and Justice, loving all,
And by all loved, hath dropped her useless scales?.
Or to the realm of Discord, where the walls,
For their stupendous height, shall one day fall,
With louder ruin, round the homes of men;
And this huge tower aspiring to the heavens,
Which Science daily rears, be stayed at last
With multitudinous jargon of wild tongues?
Vain question, where no voice will make reply.
Time only answers in the distant future,
So far his words faint in the midway air,
Or come in broken murmurs, like the sea's,
Dying uncomprehended. Still my soul
Holds faith in man, and in his progress faith;
Since not alone 'tis his, but God's.
Day dawns,
And with it swell the sounds, afar and near,
Of lowing cattle and the crowing cocks.
From farm to farm the wakening signals run,
And the blue smoke ascends. The sheep, released,
Leap the low bars and, following their bell,
Go bleating to the pasture. And, anon,
The ploughman drives his team into the field,
And treads the furrow till the horn recalls.
Meanwhile the kine their generous udders yield,
And fill the sounding pail, till it o'erruns,
And drips the path with foam. Then, at the spring,
The snowy liquid poured in careful rows,
And on the watery slabs arranged to cool,
Gleams like a series of full moons.
The giant forge, at labor 'mid the hills,
Throbs sullen thunder from its iron heart,
And 'neath yon poplar, bursting into bloom,
The lesser anvil rings. While from the cot
Which on the breezy upland greets the east,
The windows blazing with the morning red,
The loom makes answer with its busy beat.
Look in to-day upon the murmuring school.
There sits the old man at his wonted desk,
Round which the scholars stand in crescent rows,
Class after class, the oldest coming first;
Then, gradually descending, till the child
In russet slip comes tottering to his feet,
And finds a place upon the knee of Age,
Where dimpled fingers point the letters wrong,
Or stray unchided to the master's watch-seals.
How like a hive, the busy school-house hums!
Till comes the hour of recess, when in streams,
With laughter loud, they pour into the air,
And join in various games Two desks there are,
Which hold for all especial charms; and oft
The smiling children mark them out, and point
On one the deep-carved "O." Six times the Spring
Hath breathed its odors round the sacred place,
Since here the boy engraved the charmed cipher;
And yearly the tradition is passed down,
"There sat Olivia, and here Arthur sat."
Now bloom the orchards, and the noisy bees
Sing like a wind among the snowy boughs.
The occupants of neighboring garden hives
Are there, in full communities, to mine
The odorous Eldorado; and the wasp
Dropping his long legs, like a flying crane,
Lights on the flower, and, with his ready sting,
Threats the intruder. There the humble-bee
Comes booming, and departs with laden thighs.
The yellow-jacket, small and full of spite,
Bedecked in livery of golden lace,
Comes with the fretful arrogance of one
Who plays the master, though himself a slave;
And over all, the tyrant of the hour,
The kingbird, hovers, darting on his prey;
And takes the ventured argosy of sweets,2
Then boasts his conquest on the adjacent branch,
Where, like a pirate hauled against the wind,
He waits another sail. From limb to limb,
The birds which here delight to build their nests-
The bluebird, and the robin, and the small
Gray woodpecker-now flit among the flowers,
Until the air is full of life and song,
As it is full of perfume. Now begins
The housewife's happiest season of the year.
The ground already broken by the spade-
The beds made level by the passing rake-
The almanac consulted, and the signs
Conspiring favor-forth with apron full
Of choicest seeds, the best which last year gave,
She sallies to the garden, where, all day,
Breathing the pleasant odor of the mould,
She bends and plants, while, to her eye of hope,
Here springs the early pea, and there the bean,
The lettuce and the radish, and what else
Her culinary providence requires.
But chief of all, with careful hands, she sets
The slips, and bulbs, and seeds which, round each bed,
Shall make a bright embroidery of flowers.
Thus the dame Baldwin in her garden bends.
Meanwhile, Olivia by the mellow air,
Her winter task of flax not wholly spun,
Is wooed unto the porch, where at her wheel,
Where sat her grandam generations since,
She sits and sings, not loud, but low, until
The little wren to listen stops his song,
And wonders on the woodbine. Thus she sings:
"A damsel dwelt in a mansion old,
Her eyes were blue, her hair was blonde;
The hills were bright, the sky was gold,
Where rose the flaming sun beyond.
"The red stream of the rising day
Set all her windows east aglow,
And on her face the morning ray
Still stole, as it were loath to go.
"And there she spun the silver flax,
But guessed not what the woof would be,
While, through her hands of snowy wax,
The white thread ran incessantly.
"As fair as any queen, in sooth,
She toiled and held a noble trust;
Her heart had whispered this one truth
What work would brighten, sloth would rust.
"There is a loom,' she said, 'receives
Whatever skeins my reel shall bear;
There is a weaver, daily weaves
The woof which I, perforce, must wear.
"And be the thread or coarse or fine,
The loom is still the sure receiver;
Whate'er I spin, the same is mine,
Returned in full from Time the weaver !'"'
ALONG the roads, with busy pick and spade,
The neighbors gather, and, in cheerful groups,
Repair the way. Some hold the heavy plough,
Which grates and scours along the sandy side,
Or from the rock rebounds, with sudden jerk,
Or, caught beneath the deep-laid elm-root, stalls.
Some fill the gullies which the winter made,
And with broad shovels smooth the gravelly ground;
And all, with frequent jest and laugh, pursue
Their labor, making holiday of toil;
And, when the work is done, turn cheerly home,
Well pleased to know the yearly tax is paid.
Now comes the mid-week; and, from various roads,
Behold the frequent chaise, with easy jog,
Taking its tranquil way to yonder grove-
A grove of Lombard poplars, tall and saint-like-
And under which the long, low building stands,
Gray with the touches of a century,—
A house of meditation and of prayer,
The favorite temple of meek-handed Peace.
There meets the calm community of "Friends,"
The old and young, in rigid garb arrayed;
The same their grandsires wore, and, in their hope,
The same their far descendants shall put on,
Remembering their fathers, and their faith
And simple piety. The ample brim
Shades the white patriarchal hair of age,
And the brown locks of youth. There maidenhood,
Its gay soul glancing from meek bending eyes,
Walks, like the matron, in staid habit dressed.
How beautiful, in those straight hoods of silk,
And scrupulous lawns which shield their tender necks,
The gentle Rachels, Ruths, and Deborahs pass !
There oft the Christian virtues come in name,
And oft in spirit, walking hand in hand
Hope cheering Faith, with Charity between.
But this, alas! is fading; year by year
From out the Quaker chrysalis are born
The wings which wear the changing hues of fashion;
And feet, released, forget their ancient thrall,
And for the late constraint, with lighter tread,
Lead through the mazes of the intricate dance,
Imported fresh from foreign capitals.
Their mission is accomplished; and the march
Of this calm band, which, in the van of Peace,
Walked, conquering with forbearance, 'mid reproach,
And jeers of ridicule, is o'er; and now
The few who still surround the saintly tent,
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