THE REAPER S DREAM. 451 



THE REAPER S DREAM; OR, THE CELESTIAL 

 HARVEST FEAST. 



BY T. BUCHANAN BEAD. 



The road was lone, the grass was da.uk 

 With night dews on the briery bdiii, 

 Whereon & weary reaper sank. 

 His garl) was old; his visage tanned; 

 The rusty sickle in his hand 

 Could find no work in all the land. 



He saw the evening s chilly star 



Above his native vale afar; 



A moment on the horizon s bar 



It hung, then sank, as with a sigh; 



And there the crescent moon went by, 



An empty sickle down the sky. 



To soothe his pain, sleep s tender palm 

 Laid on his brow its touch of balm; 

 His brain received the slumberous calm; 

 And soon that angel without name, 

 Her robe a dream, her face the same, 

 The giver of sweet visions, came. 



She touched his eyes; no longer sealed, 

 They saw a troop of reapers wield 

 Their swift blades in a ripened field. 

 At each thrust of their snowy sleeves 

 A thrill ran through the future sheaves, 

 Rustling like rain on forest leaves. 



They were not brawny men who bowed, 

 W T ith harvest voices, rough and loud, 

 But spirits, moving as a cloud. 

 Like little lightnings in their hold, 

 The silver sickles manifold 

 Slid musically through the gold. 



O, bid the morning stars combine 

 To match the chorus, clear and fine, 

 That rippled lightly down the line, 

 A cadence of celestial rhyme, 

 The language of that cloudless clime, 

 To which their shining hands kept time. 



Behind them lay the gleaming rows, 

 Like those long clouds the sun-set shows 

 On amber meadows of repose; 

 But, like a wind, the binders bright 

 Soon followed in their mirthful might. 

 And swept them into sheaves of light. 



