THE CARTS

Long ere the noisy barnyard sounds, or ere
The dusky smithy strikes its morning lay,—
Ere chemist wakes, or barber starts his day,
A single lamp burns, — lightless on the square.

Athwart the melancholy dawning fare
The oxen, throwing up their furrow way;
Beneath the gloom of the unsettled gray
The ploughman mutters rustic curses there.

Meantime the lordly manor dreams. — The jet
Through its old marble speaks the fountain's soul;
And where the tranquil shepherd's-star is set,

Waking the lone path's yearning for its goal
Of old, slow breathing airs in echo roll
From tinkling carts the daybreaks ne'er forget.