Oh, may it, sparkling into day,
    Reward the labor and the skill! 
      Alas! should it fail,
      For the mold may be frail—­
  And still with our hope must be mingled the fear—­
  And, ev’n now, while we speak, the mishap may be near! 
    To the dark womb of sacred earth
      This labor of our hands is given,
    As seeds that wait the second birth,
      And turn to blessings watched by heaven! 
    Ah seeds, how dearer far than they
      We bury in the dismal tomb,
    Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray
    That suns beyond the realm of day
      May warm them into bloom! 
            From the steeple
              Tolls the bell,
            Deep and heavy,
              The death-knell,
  Guiding with dirge-note—­solemn, sad, and slow,
  To the last home earth’s weary wanderers know. 
    It is that worshipped wife—­
    It is that faithful mother![14]
  Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted,
  From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted. 
  Far from those blithe companions, born
  Of her, and blooming in their morn;
  On whom, when couched her heart above,
  So often looked the Mother-Love! 
    Ah! rent the sweet Home’s union-band,
      And never, never more to come—­
    She dwells within the shadowy land,
      Who was the Mother of that Home! 
    How oft they miss that tender guide,
      The care—­the watch—­the face—­the MOTHER—­
  And where she sate the babes beside,
    Sits with unloving looks—­ANOTHER!

  VII

  While the mass is cooling now,
    Let the labor yield to leisure,
  As the bird upon the bough,
    Loose the travail to the pleasure. 
      When the soft stars awaken! 
      Each task be forsaken! 
  And the vesper-bell, lulling the earth into peace,
  If the master still toil, chimes the workman’s release! 
  Homeward from the tasks of day,
  Through the greenwood’s welcome way
  Wends the wanderer, blithe and cheerily,
  To the cottage loved so dearly! 
  And the eye and ear are meeting,
  Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating;
  Now, the wonted shelter near,
  Lowing the lusty-fronted steer
  Creaking now the heavy wain,
  Reels with the happy harvest grain;
  While, with many-colored leaves,
  Glitters the garland on the sheaves;
  For the mower’s work is done,
  And the young folks’ dance begun! 
  Desert street, and quiet mart;—­
  Silence is in the city’s heart;
  And the social taper lighteth
  Each dear face that HOME uniteth;
  While the gate the town before
  Heavily swings with sullen roar! 
  Though darkness is spreading
  O’er earth—­the Upright
  And the Honest, undreading,
  Look safe on the night
  Which the evil man watches in awe,
  For the eye of the Night is the Law! 
  Bliss-dowered!  O daughter of the