No. 6. 



The Drovers. 



185 



The Drovers. 



BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



A freer, manlier life than ours, 



No son of toil is living — 

 Through heat and cold, and sun and showers 



Still onward cheeriy driving. 

 But, see, the day is closing cool. 



The woods are dim before us, 

 The white fog of the wayside pool 



Is creeping slowly o'er us. 



The night is falling, comrades mine, 



Our foot-sore beasts are weary, 

 And through yon elms the tavern sign 



Invites us all to tarry. 

 The landlord beckons from his door. 



His beechen fire is glowing; 

 These ample barns with feed in store 



Are filled to overflowing. 



From many a valley frowned across 



By brows of rugged mountains; 

 From hill-sides where through spongy moss 



Gush out the river fountains; 

 From quiet farm-fields, green and low. 



And bright with blooming clover; 

 From vales of corn the wandering crow 



No richer hovers over ; 



Day after day our way has been 



O'er many a hill and hollow; 

 By lake and stream, by wood and glen. 



Our stately drove we follow. 

 Through dust clouds rising thick and dun, 



As smoke of battle o'er us. 

 Their white horns glisten in the sun, 



Like plumes and crests before us. 



We see them slowly climb the hill. 



As slow behind it sinking; 

 Or, thronging close, from roadside rill 



Or sunny lakelet drinking. 

 Now, crowding in the narrow road, 



In thick and struggling masses, 

 They glare upon the teamster's load 



Or rattling coach which passes. 



Anon, with toss of horn and tail. 



And paw of hoof and bellow. 

 They leap some farmer's broken pale, 



O'er meadow-close and fallow. 

 Forth comes the startled good man ; forth 



Wife, children, house-dog, sally. 

 Till once more on their dusty path 



The baffled truants rally. 



We drive no starvellings, scraggy grown. 



Loose-legged, and ribb'd and bony. 

 Like those who grind their noses down 



On pastures bare and stony- 

 Lean oxen, rough as Indian dogs. 



And cows with dust-dry udders. 

 Disputing feebly with the frogs 



The crop of saw-grass meadows ! 



In our good drove, so sleek and fair. 



No bones of leanness rattle; 

 No tottering, hide-bound ghosts are there, 



Of rharaoh's evil cattle. 

 Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand 



That fed him un repining; 

 The fatness of a goodly land, 



In each dun bide is shining. 



We've sought them where in warmest nooks 



The sweetest feed is growing. 

 And priced them by the clearest brooks 



Through honeysuckle flowing; 

 Wherever hillsides, sloping south. 



Are bright with early grasses. 

 Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth, 



The mountain streamlet passes. 



But, now the day is closing cool. 



The woods are dim before us. 

 The white fog of the wayside pool 



Is creeping slowly o'er us. 

 The cricket to the frog's bassoon 



His shrillest time is keeping. 

 The sickle of yon setting moon 



The meadow mist is reaping. 



The night is/alling, comrades mine. 



Our foot-worn beasts are weary. 

 And through yon elms the tavern sign 



Invites us all to tarry. 

 Tomorrow, eastward, with our charge 



We'll go to meet the dawning. 

 Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge 



Have seen the sun of morning. 



When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth 



Instead of birds are flitting; 

 When children throng the glowing hearth, 



And quiet wives are knitting. 

 While in the fire light strong and clear, 



Young eyes of pleasure glisten, 

 To tales of all we see and hear 



The ears of home shall listen. 



From many a Northern lake and hili. 



To Ocean's far-off water. 

 Shall Fancy play the Drover still, 



And make the long night shorter. 

 Then let us still through sun and showers 



And heat and cold be driving; 

 A freer, manlier life than ours, 



No son of toil is living! 



Jfational Era. 



Sheep are more subject to disoa.ses of the 

 eye that lead on to blinclnes.s, than many 

 persons who are most accustomed to them 

 imagine. It is a singular circumstance, and 

 not so well known as it ought to be, that if 

 the eyes of a flock of sheep are carefully 

 examined, half of them will exhibit either 

 disease then present, or indications of that 

 which existed at no very distant date. 



