‘ TENNYSON’ AT THE FARM

O you that dwell‘ mid farm and fold,

Yet keep so quick undulled a heart,

I send you here that book of gold,

So loved so long;

The fairest art,

The sweetest English song.

And often in the far-off town,

When summer sits with open door,

I'll dream I see you set it down

Beside the churn,

Whose round shall slacken more and more,

Till you forget to turn.

And I shall smile that you forget,

And Dad will scold — but never mind!

Butter is good, but better yet,

Think such as we,

To leave the farm and fold behind,

And follow such as he.