Classic Poem

Onward still,
The giant movement goes with rapid pace,
And civilization spreads its arms abroad;
While the cleared forest-lands look gladly up,
And nod their harvest plumes. The summer speeds;
And many a whispering field of wheat and rye
Gleams, like a yellow sunshine, in the woods.
The grain, deep-standing, half conceals below
The primal roughness, where the reaper yet
Must take his difficult way; and there the maize,
With stalwart growth, as native to the soil,
Waves its tall martial tops, and gaily wears
Its tassels of soft silk. A few more days —
Behold the toilers lay their sickles by,
And all the sheaves are bound. Oh, happy time!
What season of the year so bright as this?
The labour done, the sultry crops are in,
And now they celebrate with harvest rites;
As in the dear and distant vales and years.
In shadowy ages of the Pagan past,
The " harvest home " was scene of sacrifice:
There the fat swine poured its red life away
Upon the altar stone; and, at the shrine
Sacred to Sylva, flowed the dairy flood,
To-day a kindred sacrifice is made;
But, with improved sense, the modern dame
Gives from her oven the well-garnished meat,
With crisped rind, and savoury with green;
And in great jars, fresh-dripping, icy-cool,
Cooled in the crystal at the shady spring,
The snow-white fluid gleams; where, not less white,
Is spread the crimped cloth beneath the trees,
O'er which the flecks of sun, on golden wings,
Flutter mid phantom leaves. The sports begin, —
The various games which please the rural mind,
And knit the manly frame. Some throw the ball;
From hand to hand the little messenger,
Swift as a meteor, flies. Beside the stream,
On plushy beds of greenest moss and grass,
The wrestlers ply the old Olympian game;
Struggling in friendly war, as struggled once —
So sings Jove's laureate — the heroes two,
Ajax and Ulysses, when Achilles
Bade the great game begin and end, and gave
To both, so equally they strove, the meed
Of well-earned victory. Through sun and shade,
Some in the foot-race emulate the deer;
Or, like the wild buck startled from his lair,
Leap the incredible space. While others bend
And lift the monster weight which, heaved beyond,
Deep dents the soil, and shakes the adjacent ground
But, yonder, mark the sport which pleases most,
And most to be approved. Whirling in air,
The swift quoit cleaves its long and graceful arch,
And strikes, half-buried in the soil, aslant,
Beside the well-marked spot; on which a second,
With equal aim, oft clangs with fiery glance,
Flying aside mid shouts of those who win;
Or, with still nicer judgment sent, descends,
And crowns the difficult meg. Behold yon form
The moment when the balanced ring is sped —
The foot advanced — the expanded chest — the arm,
An instant stretched with open hand — the eye
Following the iron flight, e'en as an archer's
Chases his winged shaft! No nobler shape,
Or freer movement of the form divine,
May charm the artistic sight! So stands to-day
The sculptured Greek in Rome: as if great Jove,
Thrilling with admiration at the scene,
Had turned the man to marble when he threw,
And made the act immortal, that, henceforth,
The Parian shape should nobly teach the world
The manliest classic game. Far through the woods
Ramble fair bands of happy youths and maids;
And noisy children, curious in their search,
Proclaim the novel wonders where they go.
There blooms some unknown flower; and there hangs,
To ripen in the autumn frost, the wild
Banana of the North; and, lowly, there
The golden mandrakes, odorous, profuse,
Drag down their yellow stalks. Between the trees,
As through an antique colonnade o'ergrown
With moss and creeping vines, the lovers walk,
Musing, delighted, on the marvellous wild.
Here, gaze in wonder on the monster path
Where strode the great tornado, summers past,
O'erturning trees whose giant roots in air
Rose, like a barricade, behind its flight.
Or here, their light steps fright the astounded squirrel,
Which flies the prone logs to its native tree.
Behold these pillared trunks, which, ere they prop
Their rafter limbs, and cornice of deep green,
O'ertop the tallest oak in cultured fields:
Here Europe's groves might grow, and wave beneath
Nor graze their plumes against the lowest branch:
Here hangs, as if from Heaven, the antique vine,
Or clasps the trunk with anacondian coils!
And where the younger festoon, like a rope
Drooping between two mast heads to the deck,
Sways in the wind, inviting to the young,
The woodland people, in their boisterous mirth,
Usurp the swing, and sweep the shadowy air.
Ye who condemn the red man's tameless life,
Go forth into the primal forest depth,
And feel the freedom which pervades its shade;
There taste the fruit upon uncultured stalks,
And slake your thirst at fountains, sunless, cool;
There note the game your every step shall start,
And you shall find, in your own Christian breast,
A savage spirit, pleading to remain,
Claiming its ancient patrimonial right.
But hark, upon the breath of afternoon,
A sound is floating, and all stand to hear;
And e'en the birds sit listening in amaze;
In delicate notes, alternate heard and lost,
Breathed from the rosined cordage of the viol
It flows from out the clearing, and, at once,
All guess the call, and hasten to the scene,
Where dance and mirth fill up the fading hours.