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| | “That precious seed into the furrow cast |
| Earliest in spring-time crowns the harvest last.” |
| —PHŒBE CARY. |
A SONG for the plant of my own native West, | |
| Where nature and freedom reside, | |
| By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest, | |
| To the corn! the green corn of her pride! | |
| In climes of the East has the olive been sung, | 5 |
| And the grape been the theme of their lays; | |
| But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be strung, | |
| Thou bright, ever beautiful maize! | |
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| Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise, | |
| And send up their pillars of smoke, | 10 |
| And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies, | |
| O’er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak; | |
| Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy arm swings | |
| The axe till the old giant sways, | |
| And echo repeats every blow as it rings, | 15 |
| Shoots the green and the glorious maize! | |
| |
| There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first, | |
| And the willow’s gold hair then appears, | |
| And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst | |
| By the red bud, with pink-tinted tears. | 20 |
| And stripèd the bolls which the poppy holds up | |
| For the dew, and the sun’s yellow rays, | |
| And brown is the pawpaw’s shade-blossoming cup, | |
| In the wood, near the sun-loving maize! | |
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| When through the dark soil the bright steel of the plough | 25 |
| Turns the mould from its unbroken bed | |
| The ploughman is cheered by the finch on the bough, | |
| And the blackbird doth follow his tread. | |
| And idle, afar on the landscape descried, | |
| The deep-lowing kine slowly graze, | 30 |
| And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside | |
| Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize. | |
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| With spring-time and culture, in martial array | |
| It waves its green broadswords on high, | |
| And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray, | 35 |
| And the sunbeams, which fall from the sky; | |
| It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at noon, | |
| And at night at the swift-flying fays, | |
| Who ride through the darkness the beams of the moon, | |
| Through the spears and the flags of the maize! | 40 |
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| When the summer is fierce still its banners are green, | |
| Each warrior’s long beard groweth red, | |
| His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and keen, | |
| And golden his tassel-plumed head. | |
| As a host of armed knights set a monarch at naught, | 45 |
| That defy the day-god to his gaze, | |
| And, revived every morn from the battle that ’s fought, | |
| Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize! | |
| |
| But brown comes the autumn, and sear grows the corn, | |
| And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, | 50 |
| And but for the cock and the noontide horn | |
| Old Time would be tempted to rest. | |
| The humming bee fans off a shower of gold | |
| From the mullein’s long rod as it sways, | |
| And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold | 55 |
| The ears of the well-ripened maize! | |
| |
| At length Indian Summer, the lovely, doth come, | |
| With its blue frosty nights, and days still, | |
| When distantly clear sounds the waterfall’s hum, | |
| And the sun smokes ablaze on the hill! | 60 |
| A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood, | |
| And the hills are all mellowed in haze, | |
| While Fall, creeping on like a monk ’neath his hood, | |
| Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize. | |
| |
| And the heavy wains creak to the barns large and gray, | 65 |
| Where the treasure securely we hold, | |
| Housed safe from the tempest, dry-sheltered away, | |
| Our blessing more precious than gold! | |
| And long for this manna that springs from the sod | |
| Shall we gratefully give him the praise, | 70 |
| The source of all bounty, our Father and God, | |
| Who sent us from heaven the maize! | |
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