A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Rest of Evening (Pierre Dupont)
THE REST OF EVENING.
When the sun sinking to his rest
With long rays streaks the plain immense,
Like ripened corn glows all the West
With purple, red, and gold intense.
Deepen the shades, as lustre fades
Upon the hills in front,—at last
Blue vapours rise in coils and braids,
The sky grows gray,—and day is past.
Come, let us rest
Till dawn again:
Repose is blest
To toil and pain.
Lies in the furrow till receives
The earth its dews again, the plough,
Birds go to roost 'mid sheltering leaves;
Number the sheep beneath the bough
O Shepherds! Maidens, switch in hand,
To fords conduct the beasts to drink.
How patient there the oxen stand!
How snort the steeds beside the brink!
Come, let us rest
Till dawn again:
Repose is blest
To toil and pain.
The spindles stop; the bright lamps shine;
Curls of white smoke from roofs ascend,
Of evening's repast the sign;
The clock strikes; work is at an end;
The weary workman homeward goes.
Home! 'tis a hovel,—but the light
Of love, rose-colours round it throws!
He hastes;—already 'tis in sight!
Come, let us rest
Till dawn again:
Repose is blest
To toil and pain.
The busy wife and children dear
Await his presence anxiously,
Soon as they see him—'Lo! he's here!'
Bursts from their lips the common cry.
Sweet kisses,—home-made wine, and food,
Revive his pale, pale face again,
His children have had bread,—and should
A man with such a wife complain?
Come, let us rest
Till dawn again:
Repose is blest
To toil and pain.
The hearth-fires all die slowly out,
Far off is heard a deadened roar,
Engines released from work, no doubt,
The hammer strokes resound no more.
From noises vain and empty shows,
Let us our souls now turn away,
Night, with the starry crown that glows,
And Nature silent, seem to pray.
Come, let us rest
Till dawn again:
Repose is blest
To toil and pain.