18W-50.] AUSTIN T. EARLE. 423 While the sky above is blue, Ere thy chain of life is riven, Think if God to thee hath given Nothing for thy hands to do. WARM HEARTS HAD WE. The autumn winds were damp and cold. And dark the clouds that swept along, As from the fields the grains of gold We gathered with the busker's song. Our hardy forms, though thinly clad, Scarce felt the winds that swept us by ; For she a child, and I a lad — Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I. We heaped the ears of yellow corn. More worth than bars of gold to view ; The crispy covering from it torn. The noblest grain that ever grew ; Nor heeded we, though thinly clad. The chilly winds that swept us by ; For she a child, and I a lad — AVarm hearts had we, my Kate and I. We merry sang as meadow larks Who bathe in dew, in summer morn, When ruddy Sol with crimson marks The eastern sky, whence day is born ; Nor heeded we, though, thinly clad, The chilly winds that swept us by ; For she a child, and I a lad — Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I. The robin hungry to us came. And, feeding, listened to our song. Then hung his head in very shame — Less joyous notes to him belong, For heedless we, though thinly clad. Of autumn winds that swept us by : Ah ! she a child, and I a lad — Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I. PLOW SONG. Mt soil is good, for late the wood In tall, green forests o'er it grew, With boughs so long, and boughs so strong ! The winds in vain against them blew. To speed my plow, I'll haste me now. And turn the rich, red clover down. That bathed with dew the summer through, Hath fed the bees with honey brown. My grain will grow, I well do know, Until the coming harvest time, When from the field, we seek the yield. Matured by this our genial chme. To speed my plow, I'll haste me now, And turn the rich, red clover down. That bathed with dew, the summer through, Hath fed the bees with honey brown. I have no care, my heart to wear, But like the warbling bird of spring. With coat that's blue, and heart that's true, I'll merry toil and merry sing. To speed my plow, I'll haste me now. And turn the rich, red clover down. That bathed with dew, the summer through. Hath fed the bees with honey bi-own. My heart is free, and thus shall be A fount of joyous, gushing song. Till won, perchance, by maiden's glance, And that, ah me ! may not be long. To speed my plow, I'll haste me now, And turn the j-ich, red clover down, That bathed with dew, the summer through. Hath fed the bees with honey brown. I know a maid, with brows that shade, Bright eyes of deepest midnight black, The nerve to do, the nerve to woo. Is all to win her, that I lack. To speed my plow, I'll haste me now. And turn the rich, red clover down. That bathed with dew, the summer through. Hath fed the bees with honey brown.
