They feel that of eves like this are born
The golden pleasures of many a morn ;
For, trials and toils for a time forgot,
Bright memories spring from the fairy spot.
Oh! well they know

How a single day

Of leisure may lighten a dreary lot.

For they are the Poor! the peasant-roots

Of the social tree, and of all its fruits;

And they prize the flowers that are dropp'd by the

throng,

And smile on their weeds, and pass lightly along;

The joys which they court

Of game or of sport,

Are stimulants generous, subtle, and strong.

1

And she who sitteth, but not alone—

That maiden-queen on her simple throne—
There, with a natural beauty crowned,
Shedding a brightness over the ground-
Amidst the praise

Of many lays,

Distinguishing one love murmuring sound.

When stranger lips shall say how she
May match in blood with sovereignty,
Will she, who, among this peasant race,
See fondness and truth in every face,

Be more a queen,

In soul or mien,

Than here in her sylvan dwelling-place?

1 Perdita.

But she with a heart untrained to cool
Its warm emotions by courtly rule,
Will smile on the peasant's dance and lay,
And cheer him to prolong his play;

Yon shepherd-boy,

Who pipes for joy,

May pipe perchance an hour a day.

Hers will it be to fling the door
Of gladness open to all the poor,
To seek the peasant's pathway bare,

And plant a rose or two here and there;

Her loving hand

Shall strew the land

With the simple pleasures that all may share.

Hers, too, to teach how treasure is lost
By gaining treasures at others' cost;
How luxury pines when pine the Poor;
Like him who destroyed his garden-store
Of blossoms and trees,

That his neighbour's bees

Might gather their honey there no more.

Oh! beautiful vision, thanks to thee,
For showing how happy the humble may be ;
How little is wanting to gild the gloom

Of Industry toiling its way to the tomb !

For a spirit is there

In that greenwood fair,

The limb to sustain and the mind to illume.

Comfort thee, mourner! commonest things
Often contain most delicate springs;

The loveliest forms are not the rarest,

Costliest joys are seldom fairest;

The garden shines

More than the mines;

To hope is to have-yet thou despairest?

Who cannot count, the dreariest here,
A hundred smiles for every tear?

The pleasure of others lessens our pain,
And memory multiplies all again.

Nature is kind!

Shall we be blind,

When even her dreams are not woven in vain!

1836.

THE YOUNG GLEANER.

HER task had been a weary one,
To stoop all day for ears of corn ;
All day beneath the harvest-sun;

Yet looks she not forlorn.

Her feet are sore, her limbs are weak,
She leans fatigued against the stile ;
Her lips are parched, and yet her cheek
Half dimples with a smile.

Although her task is done, although

Her arms have dropped their yellow store,

Her heart, untired, would freely go

Back to the field for more.

The spirit of the girl is glad,

You see it looking through her eyes;

Sweet Gleaner, she could not be sad

Beneath such lovely skies.

Though wide the field, though hot the ground,

To gather up her golden spoil,

While Heaven seemed smiling all around,

Was pleasure more than toil.

The morning breeze, the midday calm,

The shower, the blue that o'er her shone, She felt them on her heart as balm,

And sung and gathered on.

To glean what those who gleaned before
Had left, seemed all her soul desired;
And till her long day's task was o'er,
She knew not she was tired.

And now, what waits her homeward way?
Delicious rest and slumbers deep;
These three compose her night and day,
Sweet toil, sweet rest, sweet sleep.

Oh! blest, midst those whom man's hard will
Condemns to slavery's ceaseless care,
Are ye who, task-worn, labour still

Out in the open air!

Gleaner, thy grief may be assuaged,

Compared with hers thy tasks are mild, That trampled flower, that bird encaged, The pent-up Factory child.

1836.