Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder | To cheer us when the storm shall drift 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! Let other lands, exulting, glean Our harvest-fields with snow. And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, 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; Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Then shame on all the proud and vain, Let earth withhold her goodly root, 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, Through the tall and naked timber, Gleam the sunsets of November, O'er us, to the southland heading, On the night-frost sounds the treading Of the brindled moose. Noiseless creeping, while we 're sleeping, 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 Where are mossy carpets better And a music wild and solemn, Make we here our camp of winter ; Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, But their hearth is brighter burning For our toil to-day; And the welcome of returning Shall our loss repay, Down the wild March flood shall bear When, like seamen from the waters, 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 Where the crystal Ambijejis Where, through lakes and wide morasses, Swift and strong, Penobscot passes From the woods we come, Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, Angels of our home! Not for us the measured ringing Of the sweet-voiced choir : 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 Heeding truth alone, and turning From the false and dim, Where, through clouds, are glimpses Lamp of toil or altar burning 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! THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. Ships, whose traffic links these highlands, Of a clime of flowers; To our frosts the tribute bringing In our lap of winter flinging Cheerly, on the axe of labor, Or the gleam of lance! And the long-hid earth to heaven Loud behind us grow the murmurs Of the age to come; Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, Here her virgin lap with treasures 119 Rocks and hills of Maine! Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, O, our free hearts beat the warmer Freedom, hand in hand with labor, Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's While from these dim forest gardens Still renewing, bravely hewing MISCELLANEOUS. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. | Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend 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.” Nearer came the storm and nearer, roll- | Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed 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 O my husband, brave and gentle ! Omy 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, Pressed the mob in fury. Flouted him the drunken churl, Prompt to please her master; Cursed him as he passed her. Yet, with calm and stately mien, Came he slowly riding : 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 Who with ready weapon bare, Cried aloud: "God save us, 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. 121 "Pledges of thy love and faith, Now so meekly pleaded. |