THE GLEANER

That happy gleam of vernal eyes,

Those locks from summer's golden skies,

That o'er thy brow are shed;

That cheek — a kindling of the morn,

That lip — a rose-bud from the thorn,

I saw; and Fancy sped

To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,

Of bliss that grows without a care,

Andhappiness that never flies —

( How can it where love never dies? )

Whispering of promise,where no blight

Can reach the innocent delight;

Where pity, to the mind conveyed

In pleasure, is the darkest shade

That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings

From his smoothly gliding wings.

What mortal form, what earthly face

Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,

And mingle colours, that should breed

Such rapture, nor want power to feed;

For had thy charge been idle flowers,

Fair Damsel! o'er my captive mind,

To truth and sober reason blind,

‘ Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers,

The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours.

Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn,

That touchingly bespeaks thee born

Life's daily tasks with them to share

Who, whether from their lowly bed

They rise, or rest the weary head,

Ponder the blessingthey entreat

From Heaven, and feel what they repeat,

While they give utterance to the prayer

That asks for daily bread.