The Ploughman

Tearing up the stubborn soil,
        Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,
        Hands, and feet, and garments soiling -
Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?
            Yet there's lustre in his eye,
            Borrowed from yon glowing sky,
            And there's meaning in his glances
            That bespeak no dreamer's fancies;
            For his mind has precious lore
            Gleaned from Nature's sacred store.

Toiling up yon weary hill,
        He has worked since early morning,
        Ease, and rest, and pleasure scorning,
And he's at his labor still,
            Though the slanting, western beam
            Quivering on the glassy stream,
            And yon old elm's lengthened shadow
            Flung athwart the verdant meadow,
            Tell that shadowy twilight grey
            Cannot now be far away.

See! he stops and wipes his brow, -
        Marks the rapid sun's descending -
        Marks his shadow far-extending -
Deems it time to quit the plough.
            Weary man and weary steed
            Welcome food and respite need
            'Tis the hour when bird and bee
            Seek repose, and why not he?
            Nature loves the twilight blest,
            Let the toil worn ploughman rest

Ye, who nursed upon the breast
        Of ease and pleasure enervating,
        Ever new delights creating,
Which not long retain their zest
            Ere upon your taste they pall,
            What avail your pleasures all?
            In his hard, but pleasant labor,
            He, your useful, healthful neighbor,
            Finds enjoyment, real, true,
            Vainly sought by such as you

Nature's open volume lies,
        Richly tinted, brightly beaming,
        With its varied lessons teeming,
All outspread before his eyes.
            Dewy glades and opening flowers,
            Emerald meadows, vernal bowers,
            Sun and shade, and bird and bee,
            Fount and forest, hill and lea, -
            All things beautiful and fair,
            His benignant teachers are

Tearing up the stubborn soil,
        Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,
        Hands, and feet, and garments soiling -
Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?
            Yet 'tis health and wealth to him,
            Strength of nerve, and strength of limb,
            Light and fervor in his glances,
            Life and beauty in his fancies,
            Learned and happy, brave and free,
            Who so proud and blest as he?

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Pamela S. Vining, also known by her pseudonym J. C. Yule, was an English poet whose work was recognized in the 19th century. Despite her significant contribution to English poetry, detailed information about her life, including her birth and death dates, remains elusive. She remains a noteworthy figure in the canon of English literature for her emotive and thought-provoking poetry.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

The Cry Of The Karens

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Longings

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Sault Ste. Marie

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Somewhere

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

English

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The Earth Voice And Its Answer

        I plucked a fair flower that grew
In the shadow of summer's green trees -
                A rose petalled flower,
                Of all in the bower,
        Best beloved of the bee and the breeze
I plucked it, and kissed it, and called it my own -
        This beautiful, beautiful flower
That alone in the cool, tender shadow had grown,
        Fairest and first in the bower

        Then a murmur I heard at my feet -
        A pensive and sorrowful sound,
                And I stooped me to hear,
                While tear after tear
        Rained down from my eyes to the ground,
                As I, listening, heard
                This sorrowful word,
        So breathing of anguish profound: -

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Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

The Ploughman.

    Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame
    Born, grown, and fitted for the toil.
    My father, tiller of the soil,
    Bequeathed them to me with my name.

    Fear work? Nay, many times and oft
    Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands,
    And these two brown and sinewy hands,
    Methinks, were never white or soft.

    I earn my bread and know its worth,
    Through days that chill and days that warm,
    I wrest it with my strong right arm
    From out the bosom of the earth.

    The moneyed man may boast his wealth,
    The high-born boast his pedigree,
    But greater far, it seems to me,
    My heritage of brawn and health.

    My sinews strong, my sturdy frame,
    My independence free and bold -
    Mine is the r...

Jean Blewett

Be In Earnest

Be in earnest, Christian toilers,
    Life is not the summer, dream
Of the careless, child that gathers
    Daisies in the noontide beam!
It hath conflict, it hath danger,
    It hath sorrow, toil, and strife;
Yet the weak alone will falter
    In the battle-field of life.

There are burdens you may lighten,
    Toiling, struggling ones may cheer,
Tear-dimmed eyes that you may brighten,
    Thorny paths that you may clear; -
Erring ones, despised, neglected,
    You may lead to duty back, -
Beacon-lights to be erected,
    All along life's crowded track.

There are wrongs that must be righted,
    Sacred rights to be sustained,
Truths, though trampled long and slighted,
    'Mid the strife to be maintained; -
Heavy, brooding mists...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

The Cress-Gatherer.

Soon as the spring its earliest visit pays,
And buds with March and April's lengthen'd days
Of mingled suns and shades, and snow, and rain,
Forcing the crackling frost to melt again;
Oft sprinkling from their bosoms, as they come,
A dwindling daisy here and there to bloom;
I mark the widow, and her orphan boy,
In preparation for their old employ.
The cloak and hat that had for seasons past
Repell'd the rain and buffeted the blast,
Though worn to shreddings, still are occupied
In make-shift way their nakedness to hide;
For since her husband died her hopes are few,
When time's worn out the old, to purchase new.
Upon the green they're seen by rising sun,
To sharp winds croodling they would vainly shun,
With baskets on their arm and hazel crooks
Dragging the ...

John Clare

The Ploughman

Anniversary Of The Berkshire Agricultural Society, October 4, 1849

Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam!
Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!

First in the field before the reddening sun,
Last in the shadows when the day is done,
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod;
Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods divide,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide;
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves;
Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain;
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing cl...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Idle

"Work to-day in my vineyard!"


Hast thou, then, been called to labor
    In the vineyard of thy Lord,
With the promise that, if faithful,
    Thou shall win a sure reward? -
Look! the tireless sun is hasting
    Toward the zenith, and the day,
Which in vanity thou'rt wasting,
    Speedeth rapidly away!

Lo! the field is white for harvest,
    And the laborers are few;
Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant!
    Find no work that thou canst do?
Sitting idle in the vineyard!
    Sleeping, while the noon-day flies!
Dreaming, while with every pulse-beat
    Some unsaved one droops and dies!

Waken! overburdened lab'rers,
    Fainting in the sultry ray,
Cry against thee to the Master
    As thou dream'st the hours away
...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)