“Saint John the reaper, and the friend of God.” So spake the lord of all these acres broad. The high and noble art of husbandry, The rule of men, none better knew than he, Or how to make a golden harvest grow From dark sods moistened by the toiler’s brow. A grave and simple master of the soil, Whose frame was bending now with years and toil; Yet oft, of old, when floors were full of wheat, Glowing with pride he had performed the feat, Before his youthful corps, upright to stand Bearing two pecks upon each horny hand. He could the influence of the moon rehearse; Tell when her look is friendly, when adverse; When she will raise the sap, and when depress; The coming weather from her halo guess, And from her silver-pale or fiery face. Clear signs to him were birds and keen March days, And mouldy bread and noisome August fogs, St. Clara’s dawn, the rainbow-hued sun-dogs, Wet seasons, times of drought and frost and plenty. Full oft, in pleasant years, a-ploughing went he, With six fair, handsome beasts. And, verily, Myself have seen, and it was good to see, The soil part silently before the share, And its dark bosom to the sun lay bare: The comely mules, ne’er from the furrow breaking, Toiled on as though they care and thought were taking For what they did. With muzzles low they went, And arching necks like bows when these are bent, And hasted not, nor lagged. Followed along-- Eye on the mules, and on his lips a song-- The ploughman, with one handle only guiding. So, in the realm where we have seen presiding Our old friend Ramoun, flourished every thing, And he bare sceptre like a very king. Now says he grace, and lifts his eyes above, And signs the holy cross. The labourers move Away to make the bonfire ready. These Bring kindling; those, the boughs of dark pine-trees; And the old men alone at table staying, A silence fell. But Ambroi brake it, saying,-- “For counsel, Ramoun, am I come to thee; For I am in a great perplexity Thou only canst resolve. Cure see I none. Thou knowest, Master, that I have a son Who has been passing good until this day,-- It were ingratitude aught else to say; “But there are flaws even in precious stones, And tender lambs will have convulsions, And the still waters are perfidious ever: So my mad boy,--thou wilt believe it never,-- He loves the daughter of a rich freeholder, And swears he will in his embrace enfold her! “Ay, swears he will, the maniac! And his love And his despair my soul to terror move. I showed him all his folly, be thou sure, And how wealth gains, and poverty grows poor In this hard world. In vain! He would but call, ‘Cost what it may, tell thou her parents all,--