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Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand
That fed him unrepining; The fatness of a goodly land
In each dun hide is shining.
We've sought them where, in warmest nooki.
The freshest feed is growing,
Through honeysuckle flowing;
Are bright with early grasses,
The mountain streamlet passes.
But now the day is closing cool,
The woods are dim before us,
Is creeping slowly o'er us.
His shrillest time is keeping;
The meadow-mist is reaping.
The night is falling, comrades mine,
Our foot-sore beasts are weary,
Looks out upon us cheery.
We'll go to meet the dawning, Ere yet the pines of K^arsarge
Have seen the sun of morning.
When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth,
Instead of birds, are flitting;
And quiet wives are knitting;
Young eyes of pleasure glisten,
The ears of home shall listen.
THE FISHERMEN. IS
By many a Northern lake and hill,
From many a mountain pasture,
And speed the long night faster.
And heat and cold, be driving;
And rest alone in striving.
Hurrah! the seaward breezes
Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the anchor!
Run up the sail again!
The rail-car and the steed;
The breath of heaven shall speed.
From the hill-top looks the steeple,
And the light-house from the sand; And the scattered pines are waving
Their farewell from the land. One glance, my lads, behind us,
For the homes we leave one sigh, Ere we take the change and chances
Of the ocean and the sky.
Now brothers, for the icebergs
Of frozen Labrador,
Along the low, black shore!
On Brador's rocks are shed,
Like black scuds, overhead;
Where in mist the rock is hiding,
And the sharp reef lurks below, And the white squall smites in summer,
And the autumn tempests blow; Where, through gray and rolling vapor,
From evening unto morn, A thousand boats are hailing,
Horn answering unto horn.
Hurrah! for the Red Island,
With the white cross on its crown! Hurrah! for Meccatina,
And its mountains bare and brown t Where the Caribou's tall antlers
O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss, And the footstep of the Mickmack
Has no sound upon the moss.
There we'll drop our lines, and gather
Old Ocean's treasures in, Where'er the mottled mackerel
Turns up a steel-dark fin. The sea's our field of harvest,
Its scaly tribes our grain; We'll reap the teeming waters
As at home they reap the plain!
Our wet hands spread the carpet,
And light the hearth of home; From our fish, as in the old time,
The silver coin shall come. As the demon fled the chamber
Where the fish of Tobit lay, So ours from all our dwellings
Shall frighten Want away.
Though the mist upon our jackets
In the bitter air congeals,
From off* the frozen reels;
THE HUSKERS. 15
Though the fog be dark around us,
We Trill whistle down the wild wind,
In the darkness as in daylight,
On the water as on land,
And beneath us is his hand!
On the deck or in the cot;
Than in working out our lot.
Hurrah!—hurrah !—the west wind
Comes freshening down the bay,
Give way, my lads, give way!
To the dull earth, like a weed—
The breath of heaven shall speed!
It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain
Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again;
The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay
With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadowflowers of May.
Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red,
At first a rayless disc of fire, he brightened as lie
sped; Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and
subdued, On the corn-fields and the orchards, and softly
And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the
night, He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow
light; Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified
the hill; And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter,
And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught
flimpses of that sky, _ by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed,
they knew not why; And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the
meadow brooks, Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.
From spire and barn, looked westerly the patient
weather-cocks; But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as
rocks. No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel'f
dropping shell, And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low
rustling as they fell.
The summer grains were harvested; the stubblefields lay dry,
Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale-green waves of rye;
But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood,