Not jeered at by miserly names, but held becoming in all, For the poor, that they might avoid debt; and the rich that they might be justly generous. * * * * * Ho! for the flax-field, with its flower of blue and leaf freshly green,-- Ho! for the snowy fleece, which the quiet flock yield to their master,-- Woman's hand shall transmute both, into armor for those she loves, Wrapping her household in comfort, and her own heart in calm content. Hark! at her flaxen distaff cheerily singeth the matron, Hymns, that perchance, were mingled with her own cradle melodies. Back and forth, at the Great Wheel, treadeth the buxom damsel, Best form of calisthenics, exercising well every muscle Regularly and to good purpose, filling the blue veins with richer blood. Rapidly on the spindle, gather threads from the pendent roll, Not by machinery anatomized, till stamina and staple fly away, But with hand-cards concocted, and symmetrically formed, Of wool, white or grey, or the refuse flax smoothed to a silky lustre, It greeteth the fingers of the spinner. In this Hygeian concert Leader of the Orchestra, was the Great Wheel's tireless tenor, Drowning the counter of the snapping reel, and the quill-wheels fitful symphony, Whose whirring strings, yielded to children's hands, prepare spools for the shuttle. At intervals, like a muffled drum, sounded the stroke of the loam, Cumbrous, and filling a large space, with its quantity of timber, Obedient only to a vigorous arm, which in ruling it grew more vigorous. From its massy beam were unrolled, fabrics varied and substantial, Linen for couch and table, and the lighter garniture of summer, Frocks of a flaxen color for the laborer, or striped with blue for the younglings; Stout garments in which man bides the buffet of wintry elements. From the rind of the stately butternut, drew they a brown complexion, Or the cerulean borrowed from the tint of the southern indigo. Thus rustic Industry girded itself, amid household music, As History of old, set her fabulous legends to the harp. Ears trained to the operas of Italy, would find discordance to be mocked at, But the patriot heard the ring of gold in the coffers of his country, Not sent forth to bankruptcy, for the flowery silks of France; While the listening christian caught the strong harmonies of a peaceful Land, Giving praise to Jehovah. Lo! at the winter evening In these uncarpeted dwellings, what a world of comfort! Large hickory logs send a dancing flame up the ample chimney, Tinging with ruddy gleam, every face around the broad hearth-stone. King and patriarch, in the midst, sitteth the true-hearted farmer. At his side, the wife with her needle, still quietly regardeth the children. Sheltered in her corner-nook, in the arm-chair, the post of honor, Calm with the beauty of age, is the venerable grandmother.