THE PLOW. 



HY O. W. HOLMES. 



Clear tlie brown p;ith to meet the coulter's gleam ! 

 Lo ! on he comes beliiiul bis smoking team. 

 With toil's bright dew-drops on his sun-burnt brow ! 

 The lord of earth, the hero of the plow ! 

 First ill the field before the reddening sun, 

 Last in the sliabows when the day is done, 

 Line after line along the burning sod, 

 Marl< the broad acres where his feet have trod ; 

 Still v.herc he treads the stubborn clods divide. 

 The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide ; 

 Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves. 

 Mellow and dark the ridgy conifield cleaves ; 

 Up the steep hill-side where the laboring train, 

 Stands the long track that scores the level plain ; 

 Through the moist valley clogged with oozing clay, 

 The patient covoy breaks its destined w"ay ; 

 At every turn the loosening chains resound. 

 The swining plowshare circles glistening round, 

 Till the wide field one billowy waste appears. 

 And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. 



THE ETERNAL MORNING. 



Bright, glorious sunlight, through my casement peeping. 



On this new morning, in its first warm blush. 

 How can I lie here idly dozing, sleeping, 



And clinging to these dreams of soothing hush. 

 Nature is vocal with its morning praise. 



And e'en this wealth of clustering vines 

 An anthem in each dewy flower displays — 



A silent chord among these tuneful chimes. 



Sw'eet bird-songs vibrate on the cooMng air. 



The air so grateful to each waking force ; 

 Fresh life is round me, o'er me, everywhere, 



A quickened impulse from the great life source ; 

 My living soul lifts up its earth-soiled wings. 



And proudly phuucs them for anothei' dawn, 

 Watching with patient gladness till it brings 



The glorious sunrise of an endless morn ! 

 [432] [Cultivator Maey. 



