Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below; The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er. Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart; While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played. Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, To the quaint tune of some old psalm a husking-ballad sung. And like the wings of the sea-birds But in the fisherman's cottage Close, close it is pressed to the window, Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise. And a woman's waving shadow Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night wind, bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child? And why do the roaring ocean, And the night wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the colour from her cheek? THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW HERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, THER And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he; "Have naught but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,' The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, 66 Where He was once a child. They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints, upon their garments white, |