Classic Poem

Now comes the Muster's jovial, motley day,
Remnant of troublous times; and after this
Election follows. To the neighbouring town
The farmers flock, and gathering in crowds,
Discuss their candidates with growing warmth;
Then drop the powerful scrip into the poll—
The little weight which turns a nation's scale—
Where oft a world-wide interest is weighed
Beyond recall, and settled. Let no vote
Be dropped with careless thought; for it may be
The last strong hand which draws the lever down
Which moves the giant destiny of man
No future shall replace. What power is yours,
Ye heirs of what the patriots bequeathed!
The hand which holds a plough is strong as that,
And stronger oft, than which a sceptre grasps.
Then be ye each as watchful as a king,
And jealous of your rights; yet generous,
As only freemen can afford to be.
Behold where walks the white-haired beldame, Frost,
Breathing her bitterness o'er all the scene—
She whom erewhile we hailed as maiden Dew.
The flowers she fed, when morning-glories blew
Their white and purple trumpets to the dawn,
Are nipped and withered by her fingers cold;
The grass is crisp and brittle 'neath her tread;
And, like a witch, she flies the broad clear sun,
But works her charm beneath the gibbous moon.
See, where the joyous Hallow-eve comes in,
And how the country is awaked to mirth!
While, far and near, the sleepless watch-dog's bark
Responds from farm to farm, till oft the wife
Starts from her couch to peer with anxious eye;
Or, on her troubled, pillow, dreams of harm
In cabbage plots or poultry sheds sustained.
Round many a hearth, in noisy groups, collect
The youths and maids, and there Pomona reigns
Swift flies the apple to the paring blade,
While, like a serpent, falls the coiling peel.
Some quarter and take out the core, and some
Attend the giant cauldron o'er the fire,
Which on the huge crane stretched from jamb to jamb,
Wide as a gate that lets a chariot pass,
Swings o'er the blaze with cider steaming hot,
Where the brown stirrer with its handle long
A ceaseless motion keeps. Thus flies the night,
Until the odorous mass grows thick and dark,
Which then is dipped in various jars to cool.
And now the reel, to some rude Afric's viol,
Whirls through the shadowy hour till oft the star
Of morning lights the laughing revellers home
Lo, now the ungentle time of slaughter comes,
And horrid preparation frights the hour.
The flashing knives upon the grinding disk
Are held, with grating and discordant noise;
And the great casks with scalding water smoke,
Where oft the red-hot stone falls hissing, drowned
The muse, affrighted, flies the barbarous scene,
And seeks, elsewhere, whatever rural sights
Engage the autumn day. Beside the barn,
Some break the brittle flax with swingle loud,
And on the thorny hackle cleanse from tow
Some, where the full cribs like a sunset gleam
Shedding a golden lustre, shell the ears
Of Indian corn preparing for the mill;
Or thresh the buckwheat which on many a morn,
When Boreas on the frosty panes shall breathe,
Fresh from the griddle shall delight the board.
And there the matron by her cottage door,
With numerous wicks on slender twigs arranged,
In melting cauldrons gives the frequent dip,
Preparing tapers for the winter's eve;
Which then, suspended in the air to cool,
Hang like the icicles at frozen roofs,
That harden as the sinking sun departs.
Now through the heavens the changing vapours fly,
Driven by winds eccentric, threatening storm,
While answering shadows sweep the stubbled loud.
Together smite the woodland's empty arms,
While, with the last leaves, fall the latest nuts
Along the ground the rustling foliage whirls,
Where oft the quail from out the sickled fields,
Affrighted, comes, in kindred coloured drifts,
To seek a rescue from the hunter's eye.
And there the squirrel, with his pattering feet,
Collects his winter store; or on a bough,
The highest 'gainst the sky, with blowing bush,
Sits swinging o'er the leafless world amazed.
At length the slanting, chill November rain
Usurps the landscape wide, and with its hand—
Agued and blue with penetrating cold—
Closes the slumberous barn, and every door,
Most hospitable, shuts.