1.  Sow with a generous hand;
     Pause not for toil and pain;
   Weary not through the heat of summer,
     Weary not through the cold spring rain;
   But wait till the autumn comes
     For the sheaves of golden grain.

2.  Scatter the seed, and fear not,
     A table will be spread;
   What matter if you are too weary
     To eat your hard-earned bread;
   Sow, while the earth is broken,
     For the hungry must be fed.

3.  Sow;—­while the seeds are lying
     In the warm earth’s bosom deep,
   And your warm tears fall upon it—­
     They will stir in their quiet sleep,
   And the green blades rise the quicker,
     Perchance, for the tears you weep.

4.  Then sow;—­for the hours are fleeting,
     And the seed must fall to-day;
   And care not what hand shall reap it,
     Or if you shall have passed away
   Before the waving cornfields
     Shall gladden the sunny day.

5.  Sow;—­and look onward, upward,
     Where the starry light appears,—­
   Where, in spite of the coward’s doubting,
     Or your own heart’s trembling fears,
   You shall reap in joy the harvest
     You have sown to-day in tears.

LXXXII.  TAKING COMFORT.

1.  For the last few days, the fine weather has led me away from books and papers, and the close air of dwellings, into the open fields, and under the soft, warm sunshine, and the softer light of a full moon.  The loveliest season of the whole year—­that transient but delightful interval between the storms of the “wild equinox, with all their wet,” and the dark, short, dismal days which precede the rigor of winter—­is now with us.  The sun rises through a soft and hazy atmosphere; the light mist clouds melt gradually before him; and his noontide light rests warm and clear on still woods, tranquil waters, and grasses green with the late autumnal rains.

2.  One fine morning, not long ago, I strolled down the Merrimac, on the Tewksbury shore.  I know of no walk in the vicinity of Lowell so inviting as that along the margin of the river, for nearly a mile from the village of Belvidere.  The path winds, green and flower-skirted, among beeches and oaks, through whose boughs you catch glimpses of waters sparkling and dashing below.  Rocks, huge and picturesque, jut out into the stream, affording beautiful views of the river and the distant city.

3.  Half fatigued with my walk, I threw myself down upon a rocky slope of the bank, where the panorama of earth, sky, and water lay clear and distinct about me.  Far above, silent and dim as a picture, was the city, with its huge mill masonry, confused chimney tops, and church spires; near it rose the height of Belvidere, with its deserted burial place and neglected gravestones sharply defined on its bleak, bare summit against the sky; before me the river went dashing down its rugged channel, sending up its everlasting murmur; above me the birch tree hung its tassels; and the last wild flowers of autumn profusely fringed the rocky rim of the water.