Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/394

362   But honest fruits of toiling hands
 * And Nature’s sun and showers.

Be hers the Prairie’s golden grain,
 * The Desert’s golden sand,

The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,
 * The spice of Morning-land!

Her pathway on the open main
 * May blessings follow free,

And glad hearts welcome back again
 * Her white sails from the sea!

heat and cold, and shower and sun,
 * Still onward cheerly driving!

There ’s life alone in duty done,
 * And rest alone in striving.

But see! the day is closing cool,
 * The woods are dim before us;

The white fog of the wayside pool
 * Is creeping slowly o’er us.

The night is falling, comrades mine,
 * Our footsore beasts are weary,

And through yon elms the tavern sign
 * Looks out upon us cheery.

The landlord beckons from his door,
 * His beechen fire is glowing;

These ample barns, with feed in store,
 * Are filled to overflowing.

From many a valley frowned across
 * By brows of rugged mountains;

From hillsides where, through spongy moss,
 * Gush out the river fountains;

From quiet farm-fields, green and low,
 * And bright with blooming clover;

From vales of corn the wandering crow
 * No richer hovers over,—

Day after day our way has been
 * O’er many a hill and hollow;

By lake and stream, by wood and glen,
 * Our stately drove we follow.

Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun,
 * As smoke of battle o’er us,

Their white horns glisten in the sun,
 * Like plumes and crests before us.

We see them slowly climb the hill,
 * As slow behind it sinking:

Or, thronging close, from roadside rill,
 * Or sunny lakelet, drinking.

Now crowding in the narrow road,
 * In thick and struggling masses,

They glare upon the teamster’s load,
 * Or rattling coach that passes.

Anon, with toss of horn and tail,
 * And paw of hoof, and bellow,

They leap some farmer’s broken pale,
 * O’er meadow-close or fallow.

Forth comes the startled goodman; forth
 * Wife, children, house-dog, sally,

Till once more on their dusty path
 * The baffled truants rally.

We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown,
 * Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony,

Like those who grind their noses down
 * On pastures bare and stony,—

Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs,
 * And cows too lean for shadows,

Disputing feebly with the frogs
 * The crop of saw-grass meadows!

In our good drove, so sleek and fair,
 * No bones of leanness rattle;

No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there,
 * Or Pharaoh’s evil cattle.

Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand
 * That fed him unrepining;

The fatness of a goodly land
 * In each dun hide is shining.

We ’ve sought them where, in warmest nooks,
 * The freshest feed is growing,

By sweetest springs and clearest brooks
 * Through honeysuckle flowing;

Wherever hillsides, sloping south,
 * Are bright with early grasses,

Or, tracking green the lowland’s drouth,
 * The mountain streamlet passes.

But now the day is closing cool,
 * The woods are dim before us,

The white fog of the wayside pool
 * Is creeping slowly o’er us.

The cricket to the frog’s bassoon
 * His shrillest time is keeping;

The sickle of yon setting moon
 * The meadow-mist is reaping.

The night is falling, comrades mine,
 * Our footsore beasts are weary,