And thus, honest John, though his station was humble, Passed through this sad world without even a grumble; And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher.
I AM a poor ploughman, who never have wandered
Away from the sight and the pleasures of home;
I have always been prudent, and never have squandered,
And so I have never been driven to roam.
For thirty long summers my shoulders have bended
In tilling the farm where my father was born;
I live under his roof, and this season have tended,
With the plough that he left me, an acre of corn.
Though others may go to the southward and peddle,
And bring home of guineas and dollars good store,
I ne'er have desired with their crankums to meddle,
But to hoe in my garden that lies by my door.
When the sun is first rising, I always am hoeing
The mould, when 't is wet with the dews of the morn
And when he is higher, you will find me a mowing,
Or driving the plough in my acre of corn.
There are some who are crossing by sea to the island
They call Santa Cruz, with their horses and hay;
For my part, I'd rather be safe here on dry land,
And hoe in my garden, or work by the day.
I am out to the field with the sun, and am mowing
Till called up at noon by the sound of the horn;
Or else I am twirling my hoe, and am throwing
The mould round the roots of my acre of corn.
This corn is the sort that is tufted and bowing,
And when we have threshed it, 't is made into brooms; 'Tis the best of all besoms, so far as I'm knowing, To sweep out the dirt and the dust from our rooms: They always have raised it, since I can remember, And, my father once told me, before I was born He made brooms for his trade, and I guess by December I shall make up a load from my acre of corn.
I LOVE it, I lore it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm chair!
I have treasured it long as a holy prize,
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would you learn the spell? A mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat, with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide,
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm chair.
'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow,
'Twas there she nursed me, 't was there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding tears start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm chair.
THE POOR MAN'S HYMN.
WHY for a hoard of gold should I,
Like yonder squalid miser, care-
Or for the purple vestments sigh,
That sting the monarch's soul with care?
Can the mean pittance of their gems,
Their stately ships that ride the sea,
Their sceptres, or their diadems,
Add, or take aught away from me?
These are my wants - a simple scroll,
My food, my raiment, and a hearth;
Where, with the chosen of my soul,
I proudly rise above the earth!
There are my riches - - in the vales;
The hill-sides, too, are gemmed with goldAnd whispering angels on the gales Bring all that's needful to my fold.
This is my fold—the heart within,
Where answering smiles, that meet my own,
Are gifts I need not thirst to win,
And, won, are worthier than a throne!
The miser is a drudge, a slave!
Who never can his task fulfil;
He nobly free, who does not crave
To weave a living web of ill!
Not while the azure sky is bright
And sparkling whither way I turn,
While all the earth is robed in light
From rays that, heaven reflected, burn;
Not while these flowers perpetual spring
Beneath the dew drop and the sun,
Would I exchange with haughtiest king,
Or ask the crown that crime has won!
No! for enough is all I care
To delve or sorrow as I go,
And I would always hope to share
That little with the loved below.
Kings to the dust their heads must bow,
When life ebbs out mid grief and pain;
1 tear no jewels from my brow,
Nor weep to meet mine own again!
[The following lines were suggested by the simple incident of an industrious Wood-sawyer's reply to a man who told him his was hard work: "Yes, it is hard, to be sure; but it is harder to do nothing," was his answer.]
ye who at the anvil toil,
And strike the sounding blow,
Where, from the burning iron's breast
The sparks fly to and fro,
While answering to the hammer's ring,
And fire's intenser glow!-
O, while ye feel 't is hard to toil
And sweat the long day through,
Remember, it is harder still
To have no work to do.
ye who till the stubborn' soil,
Whose hard hands guide the plough,
Who bend beneath the summer sun,
With burning cheeks and brow!
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth
From olden time till now;
But while ye feel 't is hard to toil
And labor all day through,
Remember, it is harder still
To have no work to do.
'Ho, ye who plough the sea's blue field
Who ride the restless wave,
Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel
There lies a yawning grave,
Around whose bark the wintry winds
Like fiends of fury rave!
O, while ye feel 't is hard to toil
And labor long hours through,
Remember, it is harder still
To have no work to do
Ho, ye upon whose fevered cheeks
The hectic glow is bright,
Whose mental toil wears out the day,
And half the weary night,
Who labor for the souls of men,
Champions of truth and right!-
Although ye feel your toil is hard,
Even with this glorious view,
Remember, it is harder still
To have no work to do.
Ho, all who labor-all who strive!.
Ye wield a lofty power;
Do with your might, do with your strength,
Fill every golden hour!
The glorious privilege to do
Is man's most noble power.
Oh, to your birthright and yourse.ves,
To your own souls, be true!
A weary, wretched life is theirs,
Who have no work to do.
THE CROP OF ACORrns.
THERE came a man, in days of old,
To hire a piece of land for gold,
And urged his suit in accents meek,
"One crop alone is all I seek;
That harvest o'er, my claim I'll yield,
And to its lord resign the field.”
The owner some misgivings felt,
And coldly with the stranger dealt,
But found his last objection fail,
And honeyed eloquence prevail;
So took the proffered price in hand,
And for one crop leased out the land.
The wily tenant sneered with pride,
And sowed the spot with acorns wide;
At first, like tiny shoots they grew,
Then broad and wide their branches threw;
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