Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/419

 is4o-r)0.i SULLIVAN D. HARRIS, 402 And the fiash of our sickles' light illumes Our march o'er the vanquished plain. Anon we come with the steed-drawn car — The cunning of modern laws, And the acres stoop to its clanging jar, As it reeks its hungry jaws. We gather them in — the mellow fruits From the shrub, and vine, and tree. With their russet, and golden, and purple suits. To garnish our treasury ; And each hath a juicy treasure stored All aneath its tinted rind, To cheer our guests at the social board When we leave our cares behind. We gather them in — this goodly store, But not with the miser's gust, For the Great All-Father we adore Hath but given it in trust. And our work of death, is but for life, In the wint'ry days to come, — Then a blessing upon the Reaper's strife, And a shout at his Hai'vest Home. TO MY VALENTINE. Ah ! Mollie mine, 'tis a long time ago. Since under the hawthorn I ventured to woo ; The stars winked approvingly far in the sky, But what were all these to the heaven in thine eye? The bland breeze of Spring and the white flowers above. Were meeting in dalliance, to wanton in love: Whilst pure as that blossom which freighted the breeze. As warm as the zephyr that sighed through the trees, Were the hearts which communed in Love's opening hour, And confessed to the might of its master- ing power. How few were our years! with Hope's tintings how bright ! 'Twas a day-dream of childhood — a gush of delight! And Passion's young wave flowing peace- fully on. But blended our hopes and our homes into one; And thou hast been still, from that day of " lang-syne," Through storm and fair weather, my own Valentine. LOVE'S TYKANNY. Ah ! me. A witching shape hath bound This hapless soul with silken cords. Which may not loose, 'till I have found A sonnet of undying words. ! touch my pen with living fire. And, passive to her slightest nod. The words shall glow — despite His ire — Emblazoned on the throne of God ! And whilst the universe may read The challenged sonnet evermore, She may accept the damning deed, And thus undo my prison-door. Presumptuous? ha! am I a slave To sit me quiet everwhile? There's not a hell I would not brave, To compass such a woman's smile ! And when her smile my deed had won, And I was free to go at will. Her fetters would again put on And bind my soul her captive stilL