ives
A glad reply, which seems to say, "He lives!
He lives!" The song of praise is heard ascend,
Raised to the heavenly throne, in one to blend
With angels' song, from many a cottage rung,
Where on this day the father with his young
Sits down in peace; while, in the pine grove down
The rural glen, a myriad voices crown
The clear-tuned solo of the warbling thrush,
Or oft in chorus to a duet flush,
Sung with the full-piped blackbird of the wood,
Their notes are joined. The aspect and the mood
Of everything is changed, as wont on day
Of toil the crowded city moves to lay
The bands of slumber for a time away,
But brings not out the bustle and the din
Which is her weekday aspect; and within
Her walls a stilly peace prevails; the roar
And noise of lumbering waggon comes no more
Along the well-worn street, nor busy tread
Of envoy, hurrying on, by duty led,
To bank, or warehouse, or to court of law.
The myriad sounds have ceased, which nature saw
Were fit to wait upon the day of toil;
Nor mendicant nor ballad beggar foil
The sacred rest with their assiduous song.
And round the factory door the noisy throng
Forgets to come as on the other days;
Aside her task the weary seamstress lays,
Now from the close and foul-aired workroom free.
The toilsome shop is closed, and also he
Who for the week stood there doth taste the sweets
Of liberty awhile; the penman meets
No more the tiring scroll; and now in chain
The prisoner sits within his dungeon, wan
And weary; but he hears some soothing strain
Break through the thick and iron-girded wall;
And then the heavy shackles seem to fall
From off his feet; a strange emotion fills
His soul, and through his wasted body thrills,
When of the bygone days he thinks in sweet
And lingering thought; and then his eyes to meet
The scanty rays are turned, and on his mind
Awhile the captive fate forgets to find
Its deepest force or weary sigh to send.
Turn from the city, and to country lend
A passing thought. All labor is at rest.
The plough lies set, point in the mottled breast
Of half-tilled field; the flail is laid above
The barn's brown wall; the shining sickles move
Not from their keep; the woodman's axe is still;
The golden sheaf doth not the feeder fill;
The huntsman's horn is hung behind the door;
The delver's spade stands idle on the floor;
The horse and oxen run the open field,
Set free to graze; the holloaing drivers wield
No whip or goad, and all the swain is free;
T