Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/309

276 The spindles stop; the bright lamps shine; Curls of white smoke from roofs ascend, Of evening's repast the sign; The clock strikes; work is at an end; The weary workman homeward goes. Home! 'tis a hovel,—but the light Of love, rose-colours round it throws! He hastes;—already 'tis in sight!
 * Come, let us rest
 * Till dawn again:
 * Repose is blest
 * To toil and pain.

The busy wife and children dear Await his presence anxiously, Soon as they see him—'Lo! he's here!' Bursts from their lips the common cry. Sweet kisses,—home-made wine, and food, Revive his pale, pale face again, His children have had bread,—and should A man with such a wife complain?
 * Come, let us rest
 * Till dawn again:
 * Repose is blest
 * To toil and pain.

The hearth-fires all die slowly out, Far off is heard a deadened roar, Engines released from work, no doubt, The hammer strokes resound no more. From noises vain and empty shows, Let us our souls now turn away,