A Sleeping Homestead.
The meadows slumber fair beneath the moon,1
While wakes the watchful river at their feet,2
And all the air is filled with odours sweet,3
The breath of flowers that shall unfold full soon.4
In mazy mystery the forest hides,5
And straggling trees have caught a sylvan grace ;6
The sleeping farm-house shows its placid face7
Between the shadows where the grove divides8
Still are the sparrows nested in the thatch,9
And still the callow larks beneath the brake ;10
The startled doves with tender coo awake11
As bays the moon-struck mastiff on his watch.12
Now warmer light upon the welkin lies,13
And deeper night intensifies the peace ;14
Only the river moves and will not cease15
Its swift, up-searching glances to the skies.16
By blooming white-thorn and by climbing rose,17
I know the nook where dreams the maiden sweet ;18
Honest her heart as sheaves of goodly wheat,19
Fairer her face than any flower that blows.20
I know the chamber where the old folks rest,21
With hearts at peace and all their labour done ;22
Where ruddy children sleep till shines the sun,23
Where breathes the baby, warm in mother’s breast.24
I know the barn where safe from midnight chill25
The weary beggar snores amid the hay,26
Waiting the first red warning of the day27
To grasp his staff and cross the distant hill.28
God hath the simple homestead in his eye,29
And sometimes in a solemn hour like this30
He sheds about it dreams of promised bliss,31
With mellow moonlight from the summer sky.32