The Ploughman

Tearing up the stubborn soil,             Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,             Hands, and feet, and garments soiling -     Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?                 Yet there's lustre in his eye,                 Borrowed from yon glowing sky,                 And there's meaning in his glances                 That bespeak no dreamer's fancies;                 For his mind has precious lore                 Gleaned from Nature's sacred store.     Toiling up yon weary hill,             He has worked since early morning,             Ease, and rest, and pleasure scorning,     And he's at his labor still,                 Though the slanting, western beam                 Quivering on the glassy stream,                 And yon old elm's lengthened shadow                 Flung athwart the verdant meadow,                 Tell that shadowy twilight grey                 Cannot now be far away.     See! he stops and wipes his brow, -             Marks the rapid sun's descending -             Marks his shadow far-extending -     Deems it time to quit the plough.                 Weary man and weary steed                 Welcome food and respite need                 'Tis the hour when bird and bee                 Seek repose, and why not he?                 Nature loves the twilight blest,                 Let the toil worn ploughman rest     Ye, who nursed upon the breast             Of ease and pleasure enervating,             Ever new delights creating,     Which not long retain their zest                 Ere upon your taste they pall,                 What avail your pleasures all?                 In his hard, but pleasant labor,                 He, your useful, healthful neighbor,                 Finds enjoyment, real, true,                 Vainly sought by such as you     Nature's open volume lies,             Richly tinted, brightly beaming,             With its varied lessons teeming,     All outspread before his eyes.                 Dewy glades and opening flowers,                 Emerald meadows, vernal bowers,                 Sun and shade, and bird and bee,                 Fount and forest, hill and lea, -                 All things beautiful and fair,                 His benignant teachers are     Tearing up the stubborn soil,             Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,             Hands, and feet, and garments soiling -     Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?                 Yet 'tis health and wealth to him,                 Strength of nerve, and strength of limb,                 Light and fervor in his glances,                 Life and beauty in his fancies,                 Learned and happy, brave and free,                 Who so proud and blest as he?