Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 64

=_407._= THE MOURNFUL MOWERS.

Thus sang the shepherd crowned at noon And every breast was heaved with sighs;-- Attracted by the tree and tune, The winged singers left the skies.

Close to the minstrel sat the maid; His song had drawn her fondly near: Her large and dewy eyes betrayed The secret to her bosom dear.

The factory people through the fields, Pale men and maids and children pale, Listened, forgetful of the wheel, Till the last summons woke the vale.

And all the mowers rising said, "The world has lost its dewy prime; Alas! the Golden age is dead, And we are of the Iron time!

"The wheel and loom have left our homes,-- Our maidens sit with empty hands, Or toil beneath yon roaring domes, And fill the factory's pallid bands,

"The fields are swept as by a war, Our harvests are no longer blythe; Yonder the iron mower's-car, Comes with his devastating scythe.

"They lay us waste by fire and steel, Besiege us to our very doors; Our crops before the driving wheel Fall captive to the conquerors.

"The pastoral age is dead, is dead!

Of all the happy ages chief; Let every mower bow his head, In token of sincerest grief.

"And let our brows be thickly bound With every saddest flower that blows; And all our scythes be deeply wound With every mournful herb that grows."

Thus sang the mowers; and they said, "The world has lost its dewy prime; Alas! the Golden age is dead, And we are of the Iron time!"

Each wreathed his scythe and twined his head; They took their slow way through the plain: The minstrel and the maiden led Across the fields the solemn train.

The air was rife with clamorous sounds, Of clattering factory-thundering forge,-- Conveyed from the remotest bounds Of smoky plain and mountain gorge.

Here, with a sudden shriek and roar, The rattling engine thundered by; A steamer past the neighboring sh.o.r.e Convulsed the river and the sky.

The brook that erewhile laughed abroad, And o'er one light wheel loved to play, Now, like a felon, groaning trod Its hundred treadmills night and day.

The fields were tilled with steeds of steam, Whose fearful neighing shook the vales; Along the road there rang no team,-- The barns were loud, but not with flails.

And still the mournful mowers said, "The world has lost its dewy prime; Alas! the Golden age is dead, And we are of the Iron time!"

From "The Closing Scene."

=_408._=

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low; As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed His winter log, with many a m.u.f.fled blow.

The sentinel c.o.c.k upon the hill-side crew, Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, Silent, till some replying warder blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, By every light wind, like a censer, swung.

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien, Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned, and she gave her all; And twice war bowed to her his sable plume, Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall--

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew, And struck for Liberty its dying blow; Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed; Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While death and winter closed the autumn scene.

=_Margaret M. Davidson, 1823-1837._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From Lines in Memory of her Sister Lucretia.

=_409._=

O thou, so early lost, so long deplored!

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near; And, while I touch this hallowed harp of thine, Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.

For thee I pour this unaffected lay; To thee these simple numbers all belong: For though thine earthly form has pa.s.sed away, Thy memory still inspires my childish song.

Take, then, this feeble tribute; 'tis thine own; Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er, Arouse to harmony each buried tone, And bid its wakened music sleep no more.

Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest; But when its last sweet tones were borne away, One answering echo lingered in my breast.

O thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near, Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee.

=_John R. Thompson,[90] 1823-1873._=

=_410._= MUSIC IN CAMP.

Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock's waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure, And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its hid embrazure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver, And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down, With cannon grimly planted, O'er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted.