Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gaze,
On the ground that's being furrow'd for the planting of the maize?
Tell me wherefore down the valley, ye have traced the turnpike's way
Far beyond the cattle-pasture, and the brick-yard with its clay?
Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine,
With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line,
And the morning's breath of balsam, lightly brush her faded cheek—
Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.
When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glow'd,
She had watch'd a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road;
Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn,
Till amid her tears she lost him in the shadow of the barn.
Ere the supper-time was over, he had pass'd the kiln of brick,
Cross'd the rushing Yellow River, and forded quite a creek,
And his flat-boat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans,
With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.
Therefore watches Martha Hopkins—holding in her hand the pans,
When the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's:
Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, not a door behind her jars,
But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.
Often sees she men on horseback coming down the turnpike rough,
But they came not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough;
Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps,
As he jogs along at leisure, with head down like a sheep's.
She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest,
By his socks, which were blue woolen, such as farmers wear out West;
By the color of his trowsers, and his saddle which was spread,
By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.
None like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroken ox can throw
None amid his father's cornfields use like him the spade and hoe;
And at all the apple-cuttings, few, indeed, the men are seen,
That can dance with him the polka, touch with him the violin.
He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now;
For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow;
When the buck-eye tree has blossom'd, and your uncle plants his corn,
Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding-morn.
He has invited his relations, bought a Sunday hat and gown,
And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town;
That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give,
To sit down to the first breakfast in the cabin where they'll live.