And workmen sing behind the plows.

The noon is here, the sky is clear
And tender as the morn;
The ploughman's blest with perfect rest,
Where noontime shade is born.
The bird has ceased his song to trill;
The lowing of the herd is still.

Unnoticed, a dark speck appears
Above the trees!--on high
At rapid pace and fast increase
It scuds across the sky!
Nor stops to rest o'er sea or lands,
Till o'er this lovely vale it stands.

An instant, then, as if possessed
Of some aerial deil,
With shriek and yell this imp of hell
Swoops down upon the vale!
Snatches the giant oaks from earth
That nourished them and gave them birth.

And hurls them 'gainst the mountain side!--
One sweep of its black wings,
And all is o'er! And as before
The streamlet laughs and sings;
But carries on its sunny tide
Fragments of debris to the wide.

And surging sea,--the shattered boughs
Of oaks that proudly grew
Beside the stream,--is it a dream?
No, there's a baby's shoe!
The sunset's crimson rays are shed
Soft o'er the dying and the dead.

While angels hover near and spread
Their dewy shadows o'er
The vale where morn in joy was born--

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