Still, strew, with joyous hand, the wheat On the soft mould beneath our feet, For even now I seem To hear a sound that lightly rings From murmuring harp and viol's strings, As in a summer dream. The welcome of the wedding-guest, The bridegroom's look of bashful pride, The faint smile of the pallid bride, And bridemaid's blush at matron's jest, And dance and song and generous dower, Are in the shining grains we shower. VII. Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men, Who, hunger-worn, rejoice again In the sweet safety of the shore, And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear, Whose pulses bound with joy to hear The herd's light bell once more. Freely the golden spray be shed For him whose heart, when night comes down On the close alleys of the town, Is faint for lack of bread. In chill roof-chambers, bleak and bare, Or the damp cellar's stifling air, She who now sees, in mute despair, Her children pine for food, Shall feel the dews of gladness start To lids long tearless, and shall part The sweet loaf with a grateful heart, Among her thin pale brood. Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till! Oh, for thy famished children, fill, Where'er the sower walks, Fill the rich ears that shade the mould With grain for grain, a hundredfold, To bend the sturdy stalks. VIII. Strew silently the fruitful seed, As softly o'er the tilth ye tread, For hands that delicately knead The consecrated bread-- The mystic loaf that crowns the board. When, round the table of their Lord, Within a thousand temples set, In memory of the bitter death Of Him who taught at Nazareth, His followers are met, And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet, As of the Holy One they think, The glory of whose rising yet Makes bright the grave's mysterious brink. IX. Brethren, the sower's task is done. The seed is in its winter bed. Now let the dark-brown mould be spread, To hide it from the sun, And leave it to the kindly care Of the still earth and brooding air, As when the mother, from her breast, Lays the hushed babe apart to rest, And shades its eyes, and waits to see How sweet its waking smile will be. The tempest now may smite, the sleet All night on the drowned furrow beat, And winds that, from the cloudy hold, Of winter breathe the bitter cold, Stiffen to stone the mellow mould, Yet safe shall lie the wheat; Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue, Shall walk again the genial year, To wake with warmth and nurse with dew The germs we lay to slumber here. X.