Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/15

14 Too rough for flattery, and all fear above, King, priest and prophet 'mid the homes they love,— On equal laws their anchored hopes are staid, By all interpreted, and all obeyed, Alike the despot and the slave they hate, And rise firm columns of a happy state. To them content is bliss,—and labour health, And knowledge power, and meek religion, wealth.

The farmer, here, with honest pleasure sees The orchards blushing to the fervid breeze, His bleating flocks, the shearer's care which need, His waving woods, the wintry hearth that feed, His hardy steers that break the yielding soil, His patient sons, who aid their father's toil, The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest, And the white spire that points a world of rest.

His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear An equal burden in the yoke of care, With vigorous arm the flying shuttle heaves, Or from the press the golden cheese receives; Her pastime when the daily task is o'er, With apron clean, to seek her neighbour's door, Partake the friendly feast, with social glow, Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow; Then hale and cheerful to her home repair, When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care, Press the full udder for her children's meal, Rock the tired babe—or wake the tuneful wheel.

See, toward yon dome where village science dwells, When the church-clock its warning summons swells, What tiny feet the well-known path explore, And gaily gather from each rustic door. The new-weaned child with murmuring tone proceeds, Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads,