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88 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. THE HAPPY FARMER. Saw ye the farmer at his plough, As you were riding by? Or wearied 'neath his noon-day toil, When summer suns were high? And thought you that his lot was hard? And did you thank your God That you, and yours, were not condemn'd Thus like a slave to plod? Come, see him at his harvest-home, When garden, field, and tree, Conspire with flowing stores to fill His barn and granary. His healthful children gaily sport Amid the new-mown hay, Or proudly aid, with vigorous arm, His task, as best they may. The dog partakes his master's joy, And guards the loaded wain, The feathery people clap their wings, And lead their youngling train. Perchance, the hoary grandsire's eye The glowing scene surveys, And breathes a blessing on his race, Or guides their evening praise. The Harvest-Giver is their friend, The Maker of the soil, And Earth, the Mother, gives them bread And cheers their patient toil. Come, join them round their wintry hearth, Their heartfelt pleasures see, And you can better judge how blest The farmer's life may be. LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 89 THE LONELY CHURCH. It stood among the chestnuts, its white spire And slender turrets pointing where man's heart Should oftener turn. Up went the wooded cliffs, Abruptly beautiful, above its head, Shutting with verdant screen the waters out, That just beyond in deep sequester'd vale Wrought out their rocky passage. Clustering roofs And varying sounds of village industry Swell'd from its margin, while the busy loom, Replete with radiant fabrics, told the skill Of the prompt artisan. But all around The solitary dell, where meekly rose That consecrated church, there was no voice Save what still Nature in her worship breathes, And that unspoken lore with which the dead Do commune with the living. There they lay, Each in his grassy tenement, the sire Of many winters, and the noteless babe Over whose empty cradle, night by night, Sat the poor mother mourning, in her tears Forgetting what a little span of time Did hold her from her darling. And methought How sweet it were, so near the sacred house Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke, And Sabbath after Sabbath gathered strength To do his will, thus to lie down and rest, Close 'neath the shadow of its peaceful walls; And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up Our simple tomb-stone witness to that faith Which cannot die. Heaven bless thee, Lonely Church, And daily mayst thou warn a pilgrim-band, 8*
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 10:13:37