With tints of morning blushing on his wings. The fisher’s boat along the river glides, Nor leaves a ripple in its shallow wake. The wild swan sports in Anicosta’s wave, And deems his shadow his departed mate; The patient heron, on the wave-washed rock For hours stands, watching his suspecting prey; The wild-goose raises heavily to join The gabbling cohort that is hastening on, High in the air, to the bright summer-land, Where the superb magnolia lifts its head. And scents the gale—a wilderness of flowers. The hardy ivy climbs the giant tree, To place green garlands on its withered head; The wild grape from the lofty walnut hangs Its purple clusters tempting to the sight; And by the swampy brook, the sunflower turns Its golden eye in meekness toward its God; The deer, from sylvan dell comes out to drink; The buzzard on the dead tree patient waits, For the returning tide to line the shore With food well-suited to his groveling taste; And o’er the bosom of the widening stream, The lazy fish-hawk flaps his heavy wing. — Old age and childhood mark, with curious eye, The lonely scene, and pass, with cautious tread, Down the still pathway of the dying woods. Now, round the mighty piles of corn they sit, The aged ones, the young men, and the lads, With here and there a son of Afric’s clime, With eye that rolls in undiminished joy, And mouth that ready waits to swell the laugh, Or join the merry huskers’ drinking song. And thus the labor of a week is done, While wives and daughters, ’neath the farmer’s roof, Spread out the festive board with viands rich, And tempting to the eye of one who bears The sweat of labor on his swarthy brow. Now, from its yellow shuck, the ripened corn, In well-filled ears, is drawn—a pleasant sight; And while the village maidens pass along, Stopping, where’er their fancy wills, to husk, Red ears are placed within their anxious palms, By roguish ones, who hid them for this hour; And as they draw the crimson emblems forth, Full many a kiss is printed on the cheek Of rosy innocence, by lips that ne’er Such liberty had dared to take before. The clock strikes twelve, and from his cozy perch Beside the fattest pullet, lo, the cock Proclaims the approaching morn with shrillest crow! The corn is husked, and now they gather round The board, while lovely maidens wait to serve With ready hand, the laborers of the eve. Now from the lips of village sire ascends The prayer for Heaven’s rich blessing on their food; Thanks for the pouring out of plenty’s horn, And gratitude for life and health—nay, more, For liberty, without which all things else Were vain. And while he stands with streaming eye, And hand that palsy oft has clasped in vain, His trembling accents fall upon the ear, Like distant music at the close of day. The service o’er, the merry feast begins,