Much mirth was theirs--war was no wonder then;
Dread fled with danger, and the cottage cocks,
The shepherd's war-pipe, called the sons of men
When morning's wheel threw bright dew from its spokes,
To pastures green to lead again their flocks;
The horn of harvest followed with its call;
Fast moved the sickle, and swift rose the shocks,
Behind the reapers like a golden wall--
Gravely the farmer smiled, by turns approving all.
The ripe corn waved in lone Dalgonar glen,
That, with its bosom basking in the sun,
Lies like a bird; the hum of working men
Joins with the sound of streams that southward run,
With fragrant holms atween: then mix in one
Beside a church, and round two ancient towers
Form a deep fosse. Here sire is heired by son,
And war comes never; ancle deep in flowers
In summer walk its dames among the sunny bowers.
He rose, find homeward by the slumbering stream
Walked with the morn-dew glistening on his shoon.
The sun was up, and his outbursting beam
Touched tower and tree and pasture hills aboon;
The stars were quenched, and vanished was the moon;
Loud lowed the herds and the glad partridge' cry
Made corn-fields musical as groves at noon;
Birds left the perch, bee following bee hummed by,
And gladness reigned on earth and brightness claimed the sky.