  How pleasant o'er the still autumnal vale From his great timbered barn's wide open door The muffled sound of his unresting flail In rhythmic swing upon the threshing floor! How straight their tasselled tops his corn upreared! Straight were the rows, no weed dared raise its head; How golden gleamed their opening sheaths well eared Whose inner husks stuffed out his bulging bed! Full many a field of dewy grass breast-high His long sharp scythe ere breakfast time did lay; Full many a hurrying shower came by, But to the mow still faster went the hay. To him as inward fires were ice and snow, They urged his pulse with warm vivacious blood; How made his furrowed cheeks in winter glow With ruddy health and iron hardihood! Superfluous to him was coat or vest, Let blow hot or cold or stormiest weather; He, as his hardy fathers, liked the best His shirt sleeves free and brimless cap of leather. Few were his books, his learning was but small; He boasted not of thoughts beyond his speech; Some few and simple maxims bounded all That he had learned, or wished to teach. He loved his home, his farm, his native town; These were the walls his happy world confined; And heaven with unaccustomed joy looked down To see fulfilled a life itself designed. Sadly his neighbors bore him to his grave Beneath the old perpetual mourning pine, Where honest tears and praise they duly gave, For all he was, the immemorial sign. |
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