446 WILLIAM HUBBARD. • [1840-50. THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH. With the darkest cloud that ever Cast its shadow on my way, Always came a gleam of sunshine, With its vivifying ray ; To the bowed and broken spirit Ever thus it seemed to say: " There will come a day of sunlight, When the cloud has passed away." And that promise ne'er was broken — Light has always come at last ! And it ever shone the clearer For the darkness that was past. Thus was taught to me a lesson Which I never will forget — " Always hope the hour of triumph. It has never failed thee yet ! " Men may hate me and condemn me And my deeds misrepresent ; To endure their shameless falsehood For a time I am content. There's a bow of pi'omise o'er me. In my sky forever set — It will come, the hour of triumph. It has never failed me yet ! ZACHARY TAYLOR. Not where the spicy breezes Of a tropic climate fann'd. The star-illumined banner Of the hero's idol-land: Not in the storm of battle, Where the bayonet gleamed high, 'Mid the drum and trumpet's clangor Was the patriot to die ! When the cannon stilled its thunder, When the saber hid its sheen. When the turf by blood encrimsoned Reassumed its garb of green : When the worn and weary soldier Laid his plume and helmet by. And the battle-horse unharnessed Paled the lightning of his eye ; When the swart and stalwart plowman From the field of strife and blood. Sought the brookside in the valley. Where his natal cottage stood ; When the nation all was festal At the ghastly war's surcease, When the people were reposing In the radiant light of peace; When a grateful nation bade him Lay the plume and helm aside. Then the scarred and stricken hero Of the many battles died ! He is sleeping with the greatest And the bravest of the dead, With his country's blessing o'er him And her laurels on his head! i A SONG FOR THE FARMER. A SONG I sing, an humble song For the farmer's honest calling; Whose sinews strong toil all day long In plowing, threshing, mauling — Whose manly step and upright form We recognize on meeting — Whose hardened hand we haste to grasp In friendship's cordial greeting. No tinsel trapping decks the hand So honestly extended; Nor yet by kid or silken glove Is it from winds defended. Bronzed, and hard, and rough with toil, The breezes pass unheeded, Or warded off by housewife's thrift With mittens warm when needed.
