Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/345

 1840-50.] LOIS B. ADAMS, i29 And piled its fragrance at his feet. We reaped his fields of waving grain, Then plowed o'er all the vale and plain And sowed the hopeful seed again. And when the autumn's withered leaves Fell rustling round our household eaves, We gathered in his golden sheaves ; We bound his furrowed brow with maize, And honored his declining days With jubilees of grateful praise. His work is done ; his harvest home Is gathered where no blight can come ; And his sealed lips are sweetly dumb From the full perfectness of bliss. The rapture-trance that ever is Just where the heavenly Hfe meets this. We want for him no death-bell slow, No sable plumes and hearse of woe, With mourners wailing as they go. But bring in place of tolling knells, The music of your merry bells, And cheerful songs for sad farewells. Hang the green holly on the walls. Let social mirth and music calls Ring through your festal-lighted halls. Life from the Old Year's death is born — Let brightening hopes with smiles adorn The breaking of the New-Year's Morn. HOEING CORN. Out in the earliest light of the morn Ralph was hoeing the springing corn ; The dew fell flashing from the leaves of green, Wherever his glancing hoe Avas seen. While dark and mellow the hard earth grew Beneath his strokes so strong and true. And steadily stilly hill after hill, As the sun went up, he swung the hoe. Hoe, hoe, hoe — row after row. From the earliest light of the summer morn. Till the noonday sound of the dinner-hom. What was Ralph thinking of all the morn. Out in the summer heat hoeing corn. With the sweat and dust on his hands and face. And toiling along at that steady pace ? A clear light beamed in his eye the while. And round his lips was a happy smile. As steadily still, hill after hill. While the sun went down, he swung the hoe. Hoe, hoe, hoe — row after row, Faster toward nightfall than even at morn He hastened his steps through the spring- Across the road from this field of corn. Was the stately home where Ralph was born ; Where his father counted his stores of gold. And his lady-mother so proud and cold. Lived but for the satins and gauze and lace That shrouded her faded form and face ; While steadily still, hill after hill, Unthought of went Ralph, and swung his hoe, Hoe, hoe, hoe — ^I'ow after row, Day after day through the springing corn, Toward the humble home of Isabel Lorn. This he was thinking of all the morn. And all day long as he hoed the corn — " How sweet it will be, when the shadows fall Over the little brown cottage wall, To sit by the door 'neath the clustering vine. With Isabel's dear little hand in mine ! So cheerily still, hill after hill.