Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/106

There sits the farmer, brown with toil,
Whose hardened hands have tilled the soil,
Since first an urchin, strong and gay,
He gambolled mid the new-mown hay.
And by his side his faithful wife
Unspoiled by pomps or gauds of life,
Who mid her hardy offspring blest,
Her slumbering infant on her breast,
Deems not that aught of scorn or shame
Blends with a nursing mother's name,
Even though in Heaven's own temple, she
Essays its tenderest ministry.

Still, through the casement's humble screen,
A consecrated spot is seen,
Where peaceful laid in lowly bed,
With springing turf and daisies spread,
The fathers, 'neath that hallowed shade
Serenely sleep, where once they prayed.
And pensive are the thoughts that stray
To dear ones wrapped in mouldering clay,
And fervent is the love, and free,
That clings, sequestered church, to thee,
Who thus dost rear a guardian head,
To bless the living and the dead.