Reverie

F AR out in a copse where the land is low and the fire-
      flies dance in June,
Where the will-o'-the-wisp with curious light calls forth the
     cricket's tune,
Where the leaves may rustle the long day through, cast shade
     where cattle roam,
Or the sheep may graze, or the lambs cajole in a language all
      their own.

A peasant while digging a ditch one day, encountered an
     earth-mark rare
Which proved to be metal as hard as steel, and he labored
     with zealous care
To unravel the mystery, he knew not what, all covered with
     rust and grim;
A marvel it seemed in time of peace-- a marvel indeed to him,

With sturdy hand for hours long, on the early summer's day
With sweating brow and weary arm, he bent to his task away,
And I came along and looking down in the trench the good
     man made
With his pick, his endurance and earnest toil, and use of his
      helpful spade.

I studied the curious seeming log, so far as the shape might be,
But I knew by the sound no wood was there that could come
     from a forest tree;
And finally I studied the problem out, although it had lost its
     glow;
It proved a cannon of ancient time, hundreds of years ago.

I looked about but saw no frames of men who had left it there,
Not so much as a skull for food for thought; not so much as
     a mat of hair,
And I stood in wonder; my mind called up the histories
     shelved away
But the dust and the worms had found the books--gone too,
     with the gloomy day.

As I musing stood on the little mound, thrown up by the
     peasant's hand,
I looked about in gratitude at the charming homes and land,
And a tender flower beamed up at me, with its fullest heart of
     love
And shed a tear on the cannon near, to be dried by the Hand
     above.