Toiling up yon weary hill,
He has worked since early morning,
Ease, and rest, and pleasure scorning,
And he's at his labor still,
Though the slanting, western beam
Quivering on the glassy stream,
And yon old elm's lengthened shadow
Flung athwart the verdant meadow,
Tell that shadowy twilight grey
Cannot now be far away.
See! he stops and wipes his brow,--
Marks the rapid sun's descending--
Marks his shadow far-extending--
Deems it time to quit the plough.
Weary man and weary steed
Welcome food and respite need
'Tis the hour when bird and bee
Seek repose, and why not he?
Nature loves the twilight blest,
Let the toil worn ploughman rest
Ye, who nursed upon the breast
Of ease and pleasure enervating,
Ever new delights creating,
Which not long retain their zest
Ere upon your taste they pall,
What avail your pleasures all?
In his hard, but pleasant labor,
He, your useful, healthful neighbor,
Finds enjoyment, real, true,
Vainly sought by such as you
Nature's open volume lies,
Richly tinted, brightly beaming,
With its varied lessons teeming,
All outspread before his eyes.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103