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A CAROL OF HARVEST, FOR 1867.

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1   A SONG of the good green grass!

A song no more of the city streets;

A song of farms—a song of the soil of fields.

2   A song of the smell of sun-dried hay, where the          nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork;

A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.

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3   For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for          myself,

Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of Autumn fields,

Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee,

Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart,

Tuning a verse for thee.

4   O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice!

O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths!

O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming          womb!

A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.

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5   Ever upon this stage,

Is acted God's calm, annual drama,

Gorgeous processions, songs of birds,

Sunrise, that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul,

The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical,          strong waves,

The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering          trees,

The flowers, the grass, the lilliput, countless armies of          the grass,

The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages,

The scenery of the snows, the winds' free orchestra,

The stretching, light-hung roof of clouds—the clear          cerulean, and the bulging, silvery fringes,

The high dilating stars, the placid, beckoning stars,

The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald          meadows,

The shows of all the varied lands, and all the growths          and products.

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6   Fecund America! To day,

Thou art all over set in births and joys!

Thou groan'st with riches! thy wealth clothes thee as          with a swathing garment!

Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions!

A myriad-twining life, like interlacing vines, binds all          thy vast demesne!

As some huge ship, freighted to water's edge, thou          ridest into port!

As rain falls from the heaven, and vapors rise from          earth, so have the precious values fallen upon          thee, and risen out of thee!

Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle!

Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty!

Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns!

Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle, and          lookest out upon thy world, and lookest East,          and lookest West!

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Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles          —that giv'st a million farms, and missest noth-          ing,

Thou All-Acceptress—thou Hospitable—(thou only art          hospitable, as God is hospitable.)

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7   When late I sang, sad was my voice;

Sad were the shows around me, with deafening noises          of hatred, and smoke of conflict;

In the midst of the armies, the Heroes, I stood,

Or pass'd with slow step through the wounded and          dying.

8   But now I sing not War,

Nor the measur'd march of soldiers, nor the tents          of camps,

Nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line          of battle.

9   No more the dead and wounded;

No more the sad, unnatural shows of War.

10   Ask'd room those flush'd immortal ranks? the first          forth-stepping armies?

Ask room, alas, the ghastly ranks—the armies dread          that follow'd.

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11   (Pass—pass, ye proud brigades!

So handsome, dress'd in blue—with your tramping,          sinewy legs;

With your shoulders young and strong—with your          knapsacks and your muskets;

—How elate I stood and watch'd you, where, starting          off, you march'd!

12   Pass;—then rattle, drums, again!

Scream, you steamers on the river, out of whistles loud          and shrill, your salutes!

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For an army heaves in sight—O another gathering          army!

Swarming, trailing on the rear—O you dread, accruing          army!

O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea!          with your fever!

O my land's maim'd darlings! with the plenteous bloody          bandage and the crutch!

Lo! your pallid army follow'd!)

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13   But on these days of brightness,

On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads          and lanes, the high-piled farm-wagons, and the          fruits and barns,

Should the dead intrude?

14   Ah, the dead to me mar not—they fit well in Na-          ture;

They fit very well in the landscape, under the trees and          grass,

And along the edge of the sky, in the horizon's far          margin.

15   Nor do I forget you, departed;

Nor in winter or summer, my lost ones;

But most, in the open air, as now, when my soul is          rapt and at peace—like pleasing phantoms,

Your dear memories, rising, glide silently by me.

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16   I saw the day, the return of the Heroes;

(Yet the heroes never surpass'd, shall never return;

Them, that day, I saw not.)

17   I saw the interminable Corps—I saw the processions          of armies,

I saw them approaching, defiling by, with divisions,

Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile          in clusters of mighty camps.

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18   No holiday soldiers!—youthful, yet veterans;

Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of home-          stead and workshop,

Harden'd of many a long campaign and sweaty march,

Inured on many a hard-fought, bloody field.

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19   A pause—the armies wait;

A million flush'd, embattled conquerors wait;

The world, too, waits—then, soft as breaking night, and          sure as dawn,

They melt—they disappear.

20   Exult, indeed, O lands! victorious lands!

Not there your victory, on those red, shuddering fields;

But here and hence your victory.

21   Melt, melt away ye armies! disperse, ye blue-clad          soldiers!

Resolve ye back again—give up, for good, your deadly          arms;

Other the arms, the fields henceforth for you, or South          or North, or East or West,

With saner wars—sweet wars—life-giving wars.

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22   Loud, O my throat, and clear, O soul!

The season of thanks and the voice of full-yielding;

The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility.

23   All till'd and untill'd fields expand before me;

I see the true arenas of my race—or first or last,

Man's innocent and strong arenas.

24   I see the Heroes at other toils;

I see, well-wielded in their hands, the better weapons.

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25   I see where America, Mother of All,

Well-pleased, with full-spanning eye, gazes forth, dwells          long,

And counts the varied gathering of the products.

26   Busy the far, the sunlit panorama;

Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North,

Cotton and rice of the South, and Louisianian cane;

Open, unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and tim-          othy,

Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and          swine,

And many a stately river flowing, and many a jocund          brook,

And healthy uplands with herby-perfumed breezes,

And the good green grass—that delicate miracle, the          ever-recurring grass.

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27   Toil on Heroes! harvest the products!

Not alone on those warlike fields, the Mother of All,

With dilated form and lambent eyes, watch'd you.

28   Toil on Heroes! toil well! handle the weapons          well!

The Mother of All—yet here, as ever, she watches          you.

29   Well-pleased, America, thou beholdest,

Over the fields of the West, those crawling monsters,

The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving imple-          ments:

Beholdest, moving in every direction, imbued as with          life, the revolving hay-rakes,

The steam-power reaping-machines and the horse-power          machines,

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The engines, thrashers of grain and cleaners of grain,          well separating the straw—the nimble work of          the patent pitchfork;

Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin,          and the rice-cleanser.

30   Beneath thy look, O Maternal,

With these, and else, and with their own strong hands,          the Heroes harvest.

31   All gather, and all harvest;

(Yet but for thee, O Powerful! not a scythe might          swing, as now, in security;

Not a maize-stalk dangle, as now, its silken tassels in          peace.

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32   Under thee only they harvest—even but a wisp of          hay, under thy great face, only;

Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin—every          barbed spear, under thee;

Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee—          each ear in its light-green sheath,

Gather the hay to its myriad mows, in the odorous,          tranquil barns,

Oats to their bins—the white potato, the buckwheat of          Michigan, to theirs;

Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama—dig and          hoard the golden, the sweet potato of Georgia          and the Carolinas,

Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania,

Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp, or tobacco          in the Borders,

Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the          trees, or bunches of grapes from the vines,

Or aught that ripens in all These States, or North or          South,

Under the beaming sun, and under Thee.

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