glory shone,

And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!

As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away,

And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay;

From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, Their milking and their home-tasks done,

the merry huskers came.

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below; The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,

Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart;

While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.

Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung.

THE CORN-SONG.

HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,

Our harvest-fields with snow.

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift

Apollo showered of old, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly :

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod ; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God!

THE LUMBERMEN.

WILDLY round our woodland quarters,
Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;
Thickly down these swelling waters
Float his fallen leaves.

Through the tall and naked timber,
Column-like and old,

Gleam the sunsets of November,
From their skies of gold.

O'er us, to the southland heading,
Screams the gray wild-goose;

On the night-frost sounds the treading

Of the brindled moose.

Noiseless creeping, while we 're sleeping,
Frost his task-work plies;
Soon, his icy bridges heaping,
Shall our log-piles rise.

When, with sounds of smothered thunder,

On some night of rain,

Lake and river break asunder

Winter's weakened chain,

Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping
Half the peak in storm!

Where are mossy carpets better
Than the Persian weaves,
And than Eastern perfumes sweeter
Seem the fading leaves;

And a music wild and solemn,
From the pine-tree's height,
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume
On the wind of night;

Make we here our camp of winter ;
And, through sleet and snow,
Pitchy knot and beechen splinter
On our hearth shall glow.
Here, with mirth to lighten duty,
We shall lack alone

Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty,
Childhood's lisping tone.

But their hearth is brighter burning For our toil to-day;

And the welcome of returning

Shall our loss repay,

them

To the saw-mill's wheel,

Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear

them

With his teeth of steel.

Be it starlight, be it moonlight,

In these vales below,

When the earliest beams of sunlight
Streak the mountain's snow,
Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early,
To our hurrying feet,
And the forest echoes clearly
All our blows repeat.

Where the crystal Ambijejis
Stretches broad and clear,
And Millnoket's pine-black ridges
Hide the browsing deer:

Where, through lakes and wide morasses,
Or through rocky walls,

Swift and strong, Penobscot passes
White with foamy falls;

From the woods we come,

Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, Angels of our home!

Not for us the measured ringing
From the village spire,
Not for us the Sabbath singing

Of the sweet-voiced choir :
Ours the old, majestic temple,

Where God's brightness shines Down the dome so grand and ample, Propped by lofty pines !

Through each branch-enwoven skylight, Speaks He in the breeze,

As of old beneath the twilight

Of lost Eden's trees!

For his ear, the inward feeling
Needs no outward tongue;
He can see the spirit kneeling
While the axe is swung.

Heeding truth alone, and turning From the false and dim,

given

Of Katahdin's sides,

Rock and forest piled to heaven, Torn and ploughed by slides! Far below, the Indian trapping, In the sunshine warm;

Are alike to Him.

Strike, then, comrades! - Trade is

waiting

On our rugged toil;

Far ships waiting for the freighting Of our woodland spoil!

Ships, whose traffic links these highlands,
Bleak and cold, of ours,
With the citron-planted islands

Of a clime of flowers;

To our frosts the tribute bringing
Of eternal heats;

In our lap of winter flinging
Tropic fruits and sweets.

Cheerly, on the axe of labor,
Let the sunbeams dance,
Better than the flash of sabre

Or the gleam of lance!
Strike! With every blow is given
Freer sun and sky,

And the long-hid earth to heaven
Looks, with wondering eye!

Loud behind us grow the murmurs

Of the age to come;

Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers,
Bearing harvest home!

Here her virgin lap with treasures
Shall the green earth fill;
Waving wheat and golden maize-ears
Crown each beechen hill.

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Rocks and hills of Maine!
In our North-land, wild and woody,
Let us still have part:

Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,
Hold us to thy heart!

O, our free hearts beat the warmer
For thy breath of snow;
And our tread is all the firmer
For thy rocks below.

Freedom, hand in hand with labor,
Walketh strong and brave;
On the forehead of his neighbor
No man writeth Slave!

Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's
Pine-trees show its fires,

While from these dim forest gardens
Rise their blackened spires.
Up, my comrades! up and doing!
Manhood's rugged play

Still renewing, bravely hewing
Through the world our way!

and foeman, foot and horse, some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain

course.

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! And I see the Northern rifles gleaming the smoke has rolled away; down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels; There the Northern horses thunder, with

the cannon at their heels.

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball.”

ing fast and frightful on! Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won ? "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall,

O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!

"Lo the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, save my brain! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!

"O my
heart's love! O my dear one!
lay thy poor head on my knee :
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee?
Canst thou hear me? canst thou
see?

O my husband, brave and gentle ! Omy
Bernal, look once more
On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy!
mercy! all is o'er!"

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;

Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;

Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said:

To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,

She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt.

With a stifled cry of horror straight she

turned away her head; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.

her hand and faintly smiled: Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch beside her child?

All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied;

With

her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died!

A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,

From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!" Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.

Up the streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,

Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving-girl,

Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,

Cursed him as he passed her.

Yet, with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen

Came he slowly riding :
And, to all he saw and heard,
Answering not with bitter word,

Turning not for chiding.

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing,

Loose and free and froward; Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! Push him! prick him! through the town Drive the Quaker coward!"

66

,,

But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud:
Barclay! Ho! a Barclay !
And the old man at his side
Saw a comrade, battle tried,
Scarred and sunburned darkly;

Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,

Cried aloud: "God save us,
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood,

With the brave Gustavus ?"

"Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; Passive to his holy will, Put it up, pray thee: Trust I in my Master still, Even though he slay me.

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"Pledges of thy love and faith,
Proved on many a field of death,
Not by me are needed."
Marvelled much that henchman bold,
That his laird, so stout of old,

Now so meekly pleaded.