THE GOOD OLD PLOW.
Let them laud the notes that in music float
Through the bright and glittering hall,
While the amorous whirl of the hair’s bright curl
Round the shoulders of beauty fall;
But dearest to me is the song of the tree,
And the rich and the blossoming bough—
Oh! these are the sweets which the rustic greets,
As he follows the good old plow.
All honor be, then, to those gray old men,
When at last they are bowed with toil;
Their warfare then o’er, they battle no more,
For they’ve conquered the stubborn soil;
And the chaplet he wears is his silver hairs,
And ne’er shall the victor’s brow
With a laurel crown in his grave go down,
Like the sons of the good old plow.
WINTER.
Who does not love the Winter,
When all on earth below,
The houses, streams, the trees, and rocks,
Are covered o’er with snow—
When all is fair which once was bare,
And all is bright and gay,
When down the hillside rush the sleds,
Nor stop till far away?
And then the noise of all the boys,
When snow-balls fly around—
The snow-king in the meadow-field,
With icy jewels crowned—
And sparkling as the purest gold,
The scepter in his hand,
While icy courtiers, grim and still,
Await his high command.
And then when evening closes in
Around the household hearth,
We love to sit while jokes pass round,
And all is joy and mirth.
And then recount with ready tongues
The mishaps of the day,
Of plunges in the deep snow-drifts
When at our joyous play.
And though the Spring may boast its flowers,
And all its green-clad trees;
Though Summer, with its healthy showers,
Brings many a cooling breeze;
And though in Autumn with the crops
Of grain and fruit we’re blest,
Yet still I can not help but say,
I love the Winter best.
S. W.
