Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882). Complete Poetical Works. 1893.
Ultima ThulePoems. Robert Burns
I
A ploughman, who, in foul and fair,
Sings at his task
So clear, we know not if it is
The laverock’s song we hear, or his,
Nor care to ask.
A more ethereal harvest yields
Than sheaves of grain;
Songs flush with purple bloom the rye,
The plover’s call, the curlew’s cry,
Sing in his brain.
Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed
Beside the stream
Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass
And heather, where his footsteps pass,
The brighter seem.
The darkness of lone cottage rooms;
He feels the force,
The treacherous undertow and stress
Of wayward passions, and no less
The keen remorse.
His voice is harsh, but not with hate;
The brush-wood, hung
Above the tavern door, lets fall
Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall
Upon his tongue.
Rises o’er all, elate and strong;
Its master-chords
Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood,
Its discords but an interlude
Between the words.
Unfinished what he might achieve!
Yet better sure
Is this, than wandering up and down,
An old man in a country town,
Infirm and poor.
As an immortal youth; his hand
Guides every plough;
He sits beside each ingle-nook,
His voice is in each rushing brook,
Each rustling bough.
A form of mingled mist and light
From that far coast.
Welcome beneath this roof of mine!
Welcome! this vacant chair is thine,
Dear guest and ghost!