Page:The Writings of John Green Whittier (v.1).pdf/287

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THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL
277
Sounding the summer night, the stars Dropped down their golden plummets;The pale are of the Northern lights Rose o'er the mountain summits,
Until, at last, beneath its bridge, We heard the Bearcamp flowing,And saw across the mapled lawn The welcome home-lights glowing.
And, musing on the tale I heard, 'T were well, thought I, if oftenTo rugged farm-life came the gift To harmonize and soften;
If more and more we found the troth Of fact and fancy plighted,And culture's charm and labor's strength In rural homes united,—
The simple life, the homely hearth, With beauty's sphere surrounding,And blessing toil where toil abounds With graces more abounding.1868.
THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL
The land was pale with famine And racked with fever-pain;The frozen fiords were fishless, The earth withheld her grain.
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