Long since beyond the Southern Sea Their outbound sails have sped, 30 While she in meek humility, Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers which never cease, That clothe her with such grace: Their blessing is the light of peace, 35 That shines upon her face. _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._ CCLXXVII _IN WAR TIME._ The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps 5 Her ancient promise well, Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle’s breath of hell. And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, 10 And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms. What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain 15 And yellow locks of corn? Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. 20 She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field’s crimson stain. Still, in the cannon’s pause we hear 25 Her sweet thanksgiving psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm. She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; 30 For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return. She sees with clearer eye than ours The good of suffering born,-- The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 35 And ripen like her corn. O, give to us, in times like these, The vision of her eyes; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies! 40 O, give to us her finer ear! Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in! _John George Whittier._ CCLXXVIII _COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER._ Come up from the fields, father; here’s a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door, mother; here’s a letter from thy dear son. Lo, ’tis autumn; Lo where the fields, deeper green, yellower and redder, Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind; 5 Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?)