Well-pleased, his boy is trudging at his side,
A sharer in the father's joy and pride.
Weary, but patient, he erects his goad,
And homeward urges fast the rustling load;
While o'er the hills the setting sun-beam glows,
And leaves the world to shadows and repose.

Hope of the land, ye farmers, who can bring
Heaps from the soil ye sowed in early spring,
Your labors well demand the poet's lays,
Too oft on subjects spent less worthy praise.
Around the hearth, that brightly beams the while,
Of newly-gathered corn ascends the pile;
Around that pile, with cheerful voices loud,
Gather, on Autumn nights, the husking crowd.
The neighbors come with joyous heart and face,
Their Rural Festival to cheer and grace,
To yield their sympathy, their aid to yield
To those, who, like themselves, subdue the field;
And while with busy hand their task they ply,
And with their labors cheer the master's eye,
Who marks the love that crowns the closing year,
In baskets brightening with the golden ear,
Traditionary tales the hours employ,

Old hearts are glad, and young ones heave with joy.

High rose the song, thrilled forth by many a tongue ;
"T was rude in measure, and 't was rudely sung :
It told the daring deeds of Robin Hood,
Done in the starless night and pathless wood,
Who trained his bloody band, his bow who bent,
Where Sherwood's forests crown the sylvan Trent.

And then there came (it always had a place,)
The spirit-stirring strain of Chevy Chase;
And while we hear, before our mental eyes
Men, steeds, and spears, and bloody fields arise.
There goes Earl Douglas, like a Baron bold,
With milk-white steed, and armor bright as gold;
There doth earl Percy not less boldly ride,
With fifteen hundred English at his side;

And Hugh Montgomery throws his dreadful spear;
Then first we wondering heard, and wept to hear.
Thus many an ancient tale and many a song,
The scene of bliss and hour of joy prolong.

At that united, friendly, festal hour,

The Old Blind Fiddler oft displayed his power.
He traveled through the country up and down,
Talk of the cottage, wonder of the town;
Where'er he went, he never lingered long,
And always made his welcome with his song.
His darkened eye saw not the brilliant day,
But in his soul shone friendship's genial ray;
He showed a minstrel's heart, a minstrel's skill,
And ruled both swains and maidens at his will.

In fancy still I see him proudly bear

His sooty face, and jet-black curly hair;

One foot he forward pressed, and 'neath his chin,
With head drawn back, he placed his violin;
And as we praised his skill, and closing round,
Exclaimed, impatient for the magic sound,
He poured at times the brisk and lively strain,
And then it slow and serious grew again.

At times he hit the stern and martial air,

And then struck something that would please the fair;
And as with practised hand he drew the bow,
And strains divine around the circle flow,
He rolled his sightless eye from place to place,
And bowed and smiled with self-complacent grace.

That strain is o'er; but joy waits not to borrow
The ray, that gilds it, from the beaming morrow;
"T is dark without; the hearth still shining bright,
Relumes our walls, and fills our hearts with light;
Around its cheerful blaze we linger near,

And to some native legend lend the ear.
The huntsman from 'Seogee's* mimic sea,
Or recent from the mount-crowned Ossipee,
Or farther still, where the White Mountains swell
Vast and majestic, had his tale to tell.

Full wondrous was the theme, and strange to hear,
Of
game entrapped, or slain with gun and spear,
Of hair-breath 'scapes upon the stormy lake,
Of Indian, starting from the secret brake,
Of whirlwinds bearing desolation wide,

Of trees self-moved, hurled down the mountain side,
Of toils by day, of short and dangerous sleep,
Scared by the wolves, their vigils near that keep.

Such were the scenes, that gave my early days
Their nameless charm, which round them still delays;
Such were the hours, in recollection blest,

That poured their pleasures o'er my youthful breast;

* An abridged expression for Winnepisiogee, a beautiful lake in New Hampshire. Ossipee, is the name of another lake in the same region.

Blest in themselves, but rendered doubly dear,
For those who loved me, those I loved, were near ;
Who, with their hearts in looks and actions shown,
Made all my griefs, and all my joys their own.

Friends of my Youth! I often think of you.
Sad was the hour, which saw the long adieu.
Companions dear! Ye yet shall have a part,
A place of refuge, in my inmost heart,
Till once again, with happiness complete,
Brought face to face, and soul to soul, we meet.
But this, alas, with some shall never be,
Who loved, with open arms, to welcome me.
Relentless Death, that spares nor friend nor foe,
Hath touched them in their bloom, and laid them low.
Yes! they are gone; but dead to outward sight,
They live, unchanged, in Memory's fadeless light.

Mark how the churchyard yews and elms enclose
Their narrow beds, and guard their deep repose.
Green is their turf, and scattered flowers have grown
Above the moveless heart, the mouldering bone;
And those, who loved them, when the setting day
Tinges the mountain with its farewell ray,
Around their dust with pious tears renew
The rites and honors, to their virtues due.

Yonder there sleeps a youth, whose promise fair
Shone in his eye, his manners, and his air;
A child of genius! Mighty nature taught
Both power and feeling to his early thought.
I knew him well. The same with me in age,
Together we explored old Maro's page;

But there was that in his prophetic eye,

With which no vulgar mind had sympathy.

He sought, when oped the morning's purple dawn,
The breezy hill and solitary lawn.

But loved at eve the stream, or forest's gloom,
Or pensive paused beside the sculptured tomb;
Well known to talking age, and many a time
He sat and heard their legendary rhyme,
For other times, and deeds with ages dim,
Forgot by most, had secret charms for him.
But he is gone; and I am left alone,
Gone, like the flower, in early summer mown;
That poet's eye is dim; the sod is pressed
Coldly and sad upon his crumbling breast;
But long his image in the souls shall dwell

Of those, who knew him, those who loved him well.

Ah, there are thoughts more sad. Above thy grave,
Long lost Elizabeth, the willows wave;

Thou wast my sister, but didst never frame
A brother's sacred and endearing name;
Too young to know, or utter aught of me,
But none the less my love encircled thee.
Few were thy days, and those of deep distress,
But e'en thy griefs were bright with loveliness.
Returned from school, with heart averse from play,
I hastened where thy suffering body lay;
Beside thy humble cradle took my stand,
Thy forehead kissed and held thy little hand.
Oft didst thou feebly smile; and then again
Thy countenance confessed the bitter pain.
Deep to our hearts went each imploring gaze,
Which oft we saw thee to thy parents raise;