Classic Poem

The world is growing old,—so sages say
And poets sing; but look abroad to-day:
How like a monarch, throned and plenty-crowned,
Our regal earth! her ruddy temples bound
With chaplets of bright flowers, and at her feet
Her waving harvests and her fruitage sweet.
Here are no signs of eld or dull decay,
Despite what poets sing and sages say.
Man ripens and decays; his glorious powers
Dim 'neath the shade of his declining hours;
Age dulls his eye, and ere his knell is rung,
Palsies the cunning of his glowing tongue.
Man, man decays, but earth is ever young!
Dear mother-earth! as fresh as when at first
In Eden's garden her young life was nursed;—
Renewed each year, as often as the spring
Sets all the trees astir with blossoming,
And witches into music every stream
Beneath the magic of her April gleam!
See how the generous sap from her own heart
Pours without stint, and strengthens every part
Of her young offspring; trees and shrubs and flowers
Share in her fulness and partake her powers.
She paints her roses, and with equal care
Flushes with carmine nectarine and pear;
She hangs her grapes out, sweet and purple-dyed,
Nor slights the grass green-growing far and wide;
Her loving hands with equal skill adorn
The crimson tulip and the tassclled corn.
No partial step-dame she, our mother-earth!
She counts naught alien nor of stranger birth;
Her broad breast cradles all her love brings forth,
Nor weighs her favors by the claimant's worth.
A lesson here for us, O gentle friends!
Though, in good sooth, whoe'er obedient lends
A listening ear in nature's patient school
Will shape his life by many a wholesome rule
Not chronicled in books,—and therefore we,
Tillers of earth, who all her secrets see
As well as hear, what patterns we should be!
But this by way of prelude to a strain
Which, though but rudely sung, yet hopes to gain
Your ears attentive,—though we all agree
The theme's but hackneyed,—nathless, come with me
Down this rude lane, ablaze with goldenrod
And fresh with fragrance from the upturned sod,
To where yon farmhouse lifts its modest head,
By peace, content and health inhabited.
The tranquil kine, reposing in the grass,
Turn dreamy eyes upon us as we pass;
The shy sheep gaze askance, and chanticleer
Disturbs the silence with a lusty cheer
From the far barn-yard: sights and sounds are these
To make the saddest cheerful and at ease.
How full the quiet spot of sweet perfumes,
Aromas of fresh grass and clover-blooms!
How like a Sabbath stillness, or like prayer,
The cloistered calm of this sequestered air!
Anon the swinging scythe perchance is heard;
Anon the sacred, Sabbath calm is stirred
By sounding flail or woodman's axe anear,
Reëchoing through the forest sharp and clear:
The dim old forest, where the children go
A-nutting when the leaves are all aglow
Beneath the frost-king's touch. Such merry routs
The little people tell of thereabouts!
And then the huskings and the apple-bees,
The pleasant picnics underneath the trees,—
What city belle can boast such joys as these?
But not outside the modest farmhouse dwells
Its sweetest charm; that quiet roof-tree tells
Of love and trust beneath its humble dome,
And all that glads and sanctifies a home.
Here the good housewife plies her cheerful tasks
From morn to eve, nor gift nor guerdon asks
Save the sweet payment of her husband's smile,
And God's dear love, and health and strength the while.
Her rosy daughters, not too fine to soil
Their pretty fingers with the marks of toil,
With cheerful patience sew the lengthened seam,
Prepare the meal or churn the yellow cream,
Or lead the toddling baby that essays
Unequal steps about the household ways,
Or hasten to the door when daylight fails
To unburden “father” of his brimming pails.
Thrice happy man, thrice happy father he!
His smoking supper ready, on his knee
The crowing baby, and around his board
Health and content, he well may thank the Lord!
Life has its trials, whatsoe'er our lot;
But if there be, on God's dear earth, one spot
Crowned more than others with his favors lent,
'T is such a home as this: all sweet content,
All peaceful, heavenly influences meet
To purify, enrich and make it sweet.
Within, without, around it and above,
Good thoughts, like blessed angels, rove and rove.
The very cattle, knee-deep in the brooks,
Have lessons for us in their patient looks;
The silent hills, slow-stretching far away,
The shady hollows with the lambs at play
In their cool bosoms, the rejoicing rills,
The sobbing of the lonely whip-poor-wills,
The misty glories of the purpling morn,
The night's deep splendor when the stars are born,
The corn up-springing 'neath the sun and rain,
The ripening fruitage and the nodding grain,
The changing seasons as they come and go,
Winter the pilgrim, with his coif of snow,
Spring the sweet charmer, summer all ablaze
'Neath the rich dower of her meridian days,
And, best of all, glad autumn blithe and sweet,
Laying her wealth uncounted at our feet!—
Who, living out his peaceful life among
Scenes such as these, more eloquent than tongue
Of priest or prelate, who, if he be wise
To learn the lessons set before his eyes,
But shall imbibe the wisdom they impart,
And win the blessing of the “pure in heart!”—
Such as “see God,”—see Him not only there,
In His dear, far-off heaven, but everywhere:
In the bright glancing of the robin's wing,
As in a planet's steady, ceaseless swing;
In the small mercies of the passing years,
As in the forces which control the spheres;
In little household trials, wisely sent,
As in the pangs which rend a continent;
In every strange vicissitude of earth,
In smiling plenty and in direful dearth;
See Him in all His gracious hand has sent
Of joy and sorrow mercifully blent,
And seeing, love, and loving, be content!