Classic Poem

While on my knee within the myrtle shade
 My silent lyre did stand,
Upon my shoulder, like a feather laid,
 I felt a little hand.

Another, in small beauty twin to this,
 Tipped the first baby string,
And greeting my fond ear with cherub kiss,
 Some ouphe began to sing:

A hymn I heard this harvest morn,
From a light minstrel on a thorn;
 That thrilled the very spray;
But one big thought within his breast
Seemed to swell out his crimson vest,—
 “O welcome, happy day!”

A roundelay, as bold and blithe
As bee could hum about a scythe,
 I heard this harvest noon,—
“Joy to the day, so bright and warm,
Will make both hive and hamlet swarm
 With merry tenants soon!”

And hear'st thou not, this harvest eve,
Winds of the greenwood how they weave
 Their sighs into a song?
The trees find tongues—“O blissful time!
Ring out, sweet village-bells, your chime,
 And swing with us along!”

Hark! how the mountain-stream doth rave,
And wave leaps headlong over wave,
 Fast to the festive green,
Murmuring and making liquid brawl,
Forsooth they cannot, each and all,
 Be first upon the scene!

Dreamer, wake up!—and with me hie
Thither!—Thine Elfin Genius I,
 Soul of thy fitful mirth!
No sprite who mid the starry spheres
Spends all his angel time in tears
 Over unhappy Earth.

Half earth is dark, but half is bright;
If darkness thee, and the demons, delight,
 Keep to thy bower still;
There, in sad triumph, cypress-bound,
Like statue in his own fountain drowned,
 Sit darkling if thou will.

Up! up! seclusion is selfish sin,
When such gay rites and revels begin!
 See!—bright as bubble on foam,
Swift as with velvet breast the swallow
Slides thro' the air, I'm gone!—O follow,
 Follow to Harvest-home!
A spurn like a beetle's, and whirr by my cheek,
I felt from a foot and a pinion sleek;
 Methought o'er the stubble two gossamer plumes
Fluttered light on to the festive ground,
 Yet brushing each flower for wild perfumes,
 And washing betimes in the dew-filled blooms—
Their feathery points; till at length I found,
On reaching the green, whither both were bound,
Instead of an elfin genius I,
With kindling soul and ecstatic cry,
Had but followed a broad-winged butterfly!
That Will-o'-the-wisp of the sunbright day,
Which leads little fools, led me, astray;
Good genius still, were it gnat or gnome,
Which led me to join in a Harvest-home!

Why celebrate with song sublime
The idol rude of antique Time,
Yet praiseless of his presence be,
Unseen, ubiquitous deity?
Why should the senseless dead alone
With flowers of sweetest scent be strown,
Which, sure, those forms as well might wreathe
That fresher bloom than they, and breathe?
Methinks our own oak-bearing land
Shelters as much of good and grand
As Greece beneath her palmiest tree,
Or thou, twice-laurelled Italy!
Why should the vagrant Muse, from home,
On mill-round tours, for ever roam?
Why should she more a gipsy run
Bronzing herself in every sun,
Than pine immured, a pallid Nun?
Say, Renegade! what that scene excels,—
 Eye-brightening, heart-refreshing scene,
Which this proud Briton bosom swells,—
 Corn-yellow umbrageous England green?
Her fleece-white downs, her quiet dells,
In which Content a cottier dwells?
What streams with silver-shedding wave
More meadows e'er rich moisture gave?
Who fills with healthier juice the horn—
Boy Bacchus or John Barleycorn?
What outland forms more fair than these
Light-trooping now along the leas,
Or glancing nymph-like 'tween the trees?
Could stouter limbs or steadier hearts,
The pith our stubborn soil imparts,—
Could such a wall of men be shown
Since Sparta razed her wall of stone,
As here drawn up in solid line
Under the flaunting alehouse sign?
Now raise your rude chant, jocund throng!
Clear as the wild swans' clangorous song,
Which softened by the volumy air
Filling heaven's huge theatre
Falls on the senses like a hymn
Sung by ensphered Seraphim;
And hymn it is, thanksgiving sweet
As ever ear of God did greet,
Rustic hosanna, to yon dome
Heart-poured—“Bless Heaven for our Harvest-home!”

Down the dimpled green-sward dancing
 Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy,
Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing
 Love's irregular little levy.

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,
 How they glimmer, how they quiver!
Sparkling one another after,
 Like bright ripples on a river.

Tipsy band of rubious faces,
 Flushed with joy's ethereal spirit,
Make your mocks and sly grimaces
 At Love's self, and do not fear it!

Lo! a fresh group, but of less green an age,
Sob'rer, yet buoyant, fill the grassy stage.
To youths and maids, whate'er some shallower sing,
The simple dance is oft a serious thing:
One arm around her, and his fingers prest
Where the heart flutters, bird-like, 'neath the breast;
His other hand thrilling thro' every vein,
To feel her's clasp it,—moves the tremulous swain.
His delicate charge, to bear the village pride,
Sylph-light, smooth onward, floating by his side;
What dread her smile, or his own step, to miss!
What hope their cheeks at least by chance may kiss!
So near the flower, and yet afraid to sip
Love's nectar, sparkling crimson on her lip!
Ah! 'tis a perilous time and trial, sure,
To youth most bold and maiden most demure.
Dancing, like marriage rite, the nerves doth prove,
Joyous grave business to the deep in love!
Fraught with more perils far than I have said
To least infirm youth, least false-stepping maid,
My watch-note still, no sinister bird I sing,
The smooth-paced dance is oft a treacherous thing,
Of tripping youth, or years, maid, widow, wife,
Hurts to the heart, that never heals for life!

Unnumbered other revels, feats, and games,
Would make even Stentor hoarse to hint their names,
I pass; yet fain had told of them, if time
Halted for it a little, like my rhyme.

Now to his restless sea-bed wends
 the slow sun, gazing at our mirth,
And on his lustrous breath he sends,
 Wistful, a warm farewell to earth;

Mute blessing, which the vales and hills,
And man's deep soul, with gladness fills.
Now is the dance, like daylight, done,
Or new, with harvest-moon, begun,
Which shines bright as a silver sun,
Whose reflex, shivered by the breeze,
Seems to turn aspens all the trees,
And mirrors all the lattices.
Now beneath tented booth and shed,
Harvest his bending board has spread;
Hither has flocked the weary throng,
In rugged order ranged along.
The patriot king of peasants there,
Crowned with his own grey-glittering hair,
Takes humbly the one high-backed chair;
Health's bloom upon his shrivelled skin,
Shadows forth blood still fresh within.
His cheek-spots, where the coat is thin,
Show in dark threads the purpling drink,
Like blackthorn-blossoms streaked with pink;
His small eyes aye deep wisdom wink
On each next neighbour, dumb with awe,
As he lays down old village law,
Bottomed on many an older saw.
Here he, your law, vociferous wits!
Strong Son of the Sounding Anvil sits;
Black and sharp his eye-brow edge,
His hand smites heavily as his sledge—
At will he kindles bright discourse,
Or blows it out, with blustrous force;
The fiery talk, with dominant clamour,
Moulds, as hot metal with his hammer:
Yet this swart, sinewy boisterer,
His wife and babe sit smiling near,
All-fairness with all-feebleness in her arms,
Safe in their innocence and their charms:
For still the bowl, each wheeling bout,
Brings more his grim good nature out:
Miraculous bowl! that mak'st the face
Of wrinkled care as smooth as glass;
Over the gloomiest spread'st a light,
As sunrise gilds the brow of night;
Bowl, that dost kindle a strange beam
Of sense, in eyes without a gleam!
Bring'st the close sinner, sans discretion,
To a loud, loose-tongued, sad confession;
But let'st betray the simply-good
Only the more their simplehood.

Hail! hail! hail!
 The berry-brown Beer and the amber Ale!
 Sure healers of woe, and deep drowners of wail!
Foaming and screaming,
Flooding and streaming,
From barrel to bowl,
Fast as rivers can roll,
From bowl unto lips,
That froth whiter than ships
When they rush thro' wild ocean,
And fling off the spray:
Clamour all, and commotion,
But gamesome and gay!

 Now the laugh and the shout rises higher and higher!
 Old friends and young lovers draw nigher and nigher!

  All of youth's supple kin,
 Frolic wilder than elves;
  While the sages proceed, undisturbed by the din,
 Thro' the story or song only heard by themselves!
 Alas and alas! who, to sadden our play,
 Peeps in, with her misty eyes blinking and gray,
 And bids all to their pillows! Away! away!
 Alas, it is Day!