1850-60.] GEORGE TRUE. C19 Higher swelled the golden river, Flowing from the mountains down ; Bathed that light the dewy flowers, Crowned them all with jewels rare, Till above the hills the billows Surged and filled all the air. VII. She a mother, who so faintly Through the long night wished for day, Fi'oni her lips that loving spirit, With a blessing, passed away. Cla.'^ped her infant boy once fondly. Smiled to see the promised dawn — Then awoke she in that morning Which forever shineth on. Till. Through the flower-encircled casement Streamed the full tide of the morn, And within that cottage chamber Crowned two souls to life new-born. One to tread earth's rugged pathway — His a weary lot, at best ; But the mother's dawn of glory Ushered in her day of rest. HARVEST SONG. Swing — swing — swing ! Our heavy cradles ring ; "Ylien the dew-drops hang on the bending corn. And cool is the breezy breath of mom. And our hearts a lightsome joyance feel 'Mid the rustling grain and the ring of the steel. Swing — swing — swing ! Our Harvest Song we're singing, Our cradles bright, in the morning light, Through the golden fields are I'inging. Swing — swing — swing ! Our sharpening rifles ring On our dew-wet blades, when a swath we've laid. And across the field a furrow made, A golden furrow of ripened grain Which the binders gather with might and main. Then swing — swing — swing ! Our Harvest Song w^e're singing ; With a gladsome shout we'll face about. Our cradles blithely swinging. Swing — swing — swing ! The beaded pitcher bring From the spring in the hollow, all dripping and cool. Where the grape-vine hangs o'er the clear deep pool. No burning draughts from the poisonous still Want we, our harvest strength to kill. We'll swing — swing — swing ! While our Harvest Song we're singing, No help we'll borrow, the pi-ice of sorrow And degradation bringinof. Swing — swing — swing ! Till the bells in the city ring ; Or over the whispering fields of corn Is heard the sound of the dinner horn — Then we'll find how sweet hard labor can Make the bread of the working man ; And swing — swing — swing ! Our Harvest Song still singing, With health renewed by healthful food Again our cradles swinging. Swing — swing — swing ! More wearily we sing With shorter breath our lagging tune. In the stifling heat of the afternoon ; But, rallying at the set of sun. We shout, "Hurra! our harvest's done!" Our Harvest Song we now have sung : Our cradles in their places hung : There, with a final parting cheer, We'll leave them till another year.
