Part 7 — RICHARD HENRY HORNE

ABOVE yon sombre swell of land Thou see’st the dawn’s grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue. The air is cold above the woods; All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods The blackbird holds a colloquy. Over the broad hill creeps a beam, Like hope that gilds a good man’s brow; And now ascends the nostril-stream Of stalwart horses come to plough. Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind Your labour is for future hours: Advance—spare not—nor look behind— Plough deep and straight with all your powers!