One look Upon the grave Of all that Fortune gave The loiterer took-- Then grasps his staff. Whate'er the fire bereft, One blessing, sweeter than all else, is left-- _The faces that he loves_! He counts them o'er-- And, see--not one dear look is missing from _that_ store!
Now clasp'd the bell within the clay-- The mould the mingled metals fill-- Oh, may it, sparkling into day, Reward the labour and the skill! Alas! should it fail, For the mould may be frail-- And still with our hope must be mingled the fear-- And, even now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!
To the dark womb of sacred earth This labour of our hands is given, As seeds that wait the second birth, And turn to blessings watch'd by heaven! Ah seeds, how dearer far than they We bury in the dismal tomb, Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray That suns beyond the realm of day May warm them into bloom!
From the steeple Tolls the bell, Deep and heavy, The death-knell! Measured and solemn, guiding up the road A wearied wanderer to the last abode. It is that worship'd wife-- It is that faithful mother![43] Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted, From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted. Far from those blithe companions, born Of her, and blooming in their morn; On whom, when couch'd, her heart above So often look'd the Mother-Love!
Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band, And never, never more to come-- She dwells within the shadowy land, Who was the Mother of that Home! How oft they miss that tender guide, The care--the watch--the face--the MOTHER-- And where she sate the babes beside, Sits with unloving looks--ANOTHER!
While the mass is cooling now, Let the labour yield to leisure, As the bird upon the bough, Loose the travail to the pleasure. When the soft stars awaken, Each task be forsaken!
And the vesper-bell lulling the earth into peace, If the master still toil, chimes the workman's release!
Gleesome and gay, On the welcoming way, Through the wood glides the wanderer home! And the eye and ear are meeting, Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating-- Now, the wonted shelter near, Lowing the lusty-fronted steer; Creaking now the heavy wain, Reels with the happy harvest grain. Which with many-coloured leaves, Glitters the garland on the sheaves; And the mower and the maid Bound to the dance beneath the shade! Desert street, and quiet mart;-- Silence is in the city's heart; Round the taper burning cheerly, Gather the groups HOME loves so dearly; And the gate the town before Heavily swings with sullen roar!