Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/418

 402 SULLIVAN D. HARRIS. [1840-50. Thou dost not love me ! Whose sturdy ax fell, never grudging the Though my spirit-life hath hovered o'er cost. thee, To rear up such a State, as the gem of And like a guardian angel, scared away the nation ; The troops of red-eyed demons from thy Then join all your voices in grateful ac- path, claim, And watching o'er thy pillow, caught the 'Tis the triumph of toil in Jehovah's great smile name. That played upon thy slumberous lips, Our sons and our daughters together what time may sing, Thy soaring spirit bathed in rupturous The Might is the Right, and the Fai-mer dreams. is King. Thou dar'st not love me ! for a mighty spell And here we are gathered, from farm and Hath chained the fountain of thy inner life from town, And made thee coward to the high re- To behold and rejoice in each other's solve — progression. Daring to be thyself. So let the world wag, in its up and its down, We are proud of a hand in this noble profession. Where the sweat of our face shall earn us our bread, A SONG FOR OHIO. And the angels of peace shall pillow our head. When the God of our fathers looked over We are joined in a band no tyrant can this land, To choose out a country most worthy sever — Hurrah for the Farmer, forever and possessing, ever! Wliere the rivers and plains ever beaute- ous and grand. Might so constantly smile on the light of his blessing. SONG OF THE HARVESTERS. From Erie's broad waves to the river We gather them in — the bright green below. leaves, The Scioto's sparkle and the Musking- With our scythes and rakes to-day. um's flow, And the mow grows big, as the pitcher And the graceful Miamis together re- heaves joice. His lifts in the sweltering bay. And bless the All-Father with silver- ho ! afield ! for the mower's scythe, toned voice. Hath a ring as of destiny, Sweeping the eai'th of its burthen lithe, 'Twas here the good angel encamped with As it sings in wrathful glee. his host To cheer the brave woodman, 'mid his We gather them in — the nodding plumes toil and privation, Of the yellow and bended grain,