VIII.

Strew silently the fruitful seed,
As softly o'er the tilth ye tread,
For hands that delicately knead
The consecrated bread,

The mystic loaf that crowns the board,
When, round the table of their Lord,
Within a thousand temples set,

In memory of the bitter death

Of Him who taught at Nazareth,

His followers are met,

And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet,

As of the Holy One they think,

The glory of whose rising yet

Makes bright the grave's mysterious brink.

IX.

Brethren, the sower's task is done;

The seed is in its winter bed.

Now let the dark brown mould be spread,

To hide it from the sun,

And leave it to the kindly care

Of the still earth and brooding air;
As when the mother, from her breast,
Lays the hushed babe apart to rest,
And shades its eyes and waits to see
How sweet its waking smile will be.

The tempest now may smite, the sleet
All night on the drowned furrow beat,
And winds that, from the cloudy hold

THE SONG OF THE SOWER.

Of winter, breathe the bitter cold,
Stiffen to stone the mellow mould,
Yet safe shall lie the wheat:
Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue,
Shall walk again the genial year,

To wake with warmth and nurse with dew
The germs we lay to slumber here.

X.

Oh blessed harvest yet to be!

Abide thou with the love that keeps,

In its warm bosom, tenderly,

The life which wakes and that which sleeps.

The love that leads the willing spheres

Along the unending track of years,
And watches o'er the sparrow's nest,

Shall brood above thy winter rest,

And raise thee from the dust, to hold

Light whisperings with the winds of May,
And fill thy spikes with living gold,
From summer's yellow ray.
Then, as thy garners give thee forth,
On what glad errands shalt thou go,
Wherever, o'er the waiting earth,

Roads wind and rivers flow.

The ancient East shall welcome thee
To mighty marts beyond the sea,

And they who dwell where palm groves sound
To summer winds the whole year round,
Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore,
The sails that bring thy glittering store.

87

THE NEW AND THE OLD.

NR

EW are the leaves on the oaken spray,^ New the blades of the silky grass; Flowers, that were buds but yesterday, Peep from the ground where'er I pass.

These gay idlers, the butterflies,

Broke, to-day, from their winter shroud; These soft airs, that winnow the skies,

Blow, just born, from the soft, white cloud.

Gushing fresh in the little streams,

What a prattle the waters make!

Even the sun, with his tender beams,
Seems as young as the flowers they wake.

Children are wading, with cheerful cries,
In the shoals of the sparkling brook;
Laughing maidens, with soft, young eyes,
Walk or sit in the shady nook.

What am I doing, thus alone,
In the glory of nature here,
Silver-haired, like a snow-flake thrown
On the greens of the springing year?

Only for brows unploughed by care,
Eyes that glisten with hope and mirth,
Cheeks unwrinkled, and unblanched hair,
Shines this holiday of the earth.

THE NEW AND THE OLD.

Under the grass, with the clammy clay,
Lie in darkness the last year's flowers,
Born of a light that has passed away,

Dews long dried, and forgotten showers.

89

"Under the grass is the fitting home,"

So they whisper, "for such as thou,
When the winter of life is come,

Chilling the blood, and frosting the brow."

S

THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861.

OFTLY breathes the west wind beside the ruddy forest, Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies. Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November, Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies.

Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows,
Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave the new,
Spared the autumn rose and the garden's group of pansies,
Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue.

On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered; Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson,
Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green.
Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing

With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.

Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me; Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here; Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me,

Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year.