This ebook is the product of many hours of hard work by volunteers for Standard Ebooks, and builds on the hard work of other literature lovers made possible by the public domain.
The source text and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. They may still be copyrighted in other countries, so users located outside of the United States must check their local laws before using this ebook. The creators of, and contributors to, this ebook dedicate their contributions to the worldwide public domain via the terms in the CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication. For full license information, see the Uncopyright at the end of this ebook.
Standard Ebooks is a volunteer-driven project that produces ebook editions of public domain literature using modern typography, technology, and editorial standards, and distributes them free of cost. You can download this and other ebooks carefully produced for true book lovers at standardebooks.org.
The Maiden’s Harvest
There goeth, with the early light, Across a barren plain, One who, with face as morning bright, Singeth, “I come again!
“And every grain I scatter free, An hundred-fold shall yield, Till waveth like a golden sea This dark and barren field.”
She casteth seed upon the ground From out her pure white hand, And little winds steal up around To bear it through the land.
She strikes her harp, she sings her song; She sings so loud and clear, “Arise! arise! ye sleeping throng, And bud and blossom here!”
When o’er the hills she passed away, The Spring remembered her, And came, with sun and air of May, The barren earth to stir.
And dropping dew the spot did love, And lingered there till noon; And winds and rains moved on above In softly-changing tune.
So, when the Autumn cometh round, The golden heads bend low— And near and nearer to the ground Their royal beard doth flow.
The poor rejoice; in throngs they come To reap the dropping grain;— Their voices rise in busy hum: “Who, who hath sowed the plain?
“And who hath wrought such bounteous cheer Where all before was dead?” They bless the unseen Giver dear Who gave this daily bread.
With harp in hand, a maiden bright Passed slowly by the throng, With face as fair as sunset light The maiden sang her song.
“In morning-time I sowed this plain, Blest may the evening be, Which gives back every little grain An hundred-fold to me!”
Song
Oh bird, thou dartest to the sun When morning beams first spring, And I, like thee, would swiftly run, As sweetly would I sing:
Thy burning heart doth draw thee up Unto the source of fire; Thou drinkest from its glowing cup, And quenchest thy desire.
Oh dew, thou droppest soft below, And pearlest all the ground, Yet when the noontide comes, I know Thou never canst be found;
I would like thine had been my birth, Then I, without a sigh, Might sleep my night through on the earth, To waken in the sky.
Oh clouds, ye little tender sheep, Pastured in fields of blue, While moon and stars your fold can keep, And gently shepherd you—
Let me, too, follow in the train That flocks across the night, Or lingers on the open plain With new-shorn fleeces white.
Oh singing winds, that wander far, Yet always seem at home, And freely play ’twixt star and star, Along the bending dome,
I often listen to your song, Yet never hear you say One word of all the happy worlds That shine so far away.
For they are free, ye all are free, And bud, and dew, and light, Can dart upon the azure sea, And leave me to my night;
Oh would like theirs had been my birth, Then I, without a sigh, Might sleep this night through on the earth To waken in the sky.
The Alpine Sheep
Addressed to a Friend, After the Loss of a Child
When on my ear your loss was knelled, And tender sympathy upburst, A little spring from memory welled, Which once had quenched my bitter thirst.
And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as healing dew, To steal some fever from your grief.
After our child’s untroubled breath Up to the Father took its way, And on our home the shade of Death Like a long twilight haunting lay,
And friends came round, with us to weep Her little spirit’s swift remove, The story of the Alpine sheep Was told to us by one we love.
They, in the valley’s sheltering care, Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb
To airy shelves of pasture green, That hang along the mountain’s side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mist the sunbeams slide:
But nought can tempt the timid things The steep and rugged path to try, Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, And seared below the pastures lie,
Till in his arms their lambs he takes, Along the dizzy verge to go, Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, They follow on, o’er rock and snow.
And in those pastures, lifted fair, More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs
