The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1885-07-18
THE OLD MOWER.

[Recently read before the Ruggles Street
Boston Young Mems UniOn.l
In the days of my youth remember
An old mower sang me this rune:
''Ihe aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June"
And he said: "Whatovcr thy station,
Whatever thy hands may employ
Be true to thy best inspiration,
'Tis thy Angel of Blessings, my boy"
Then swift rung his scythe, that Old farmer s,
And fast fell the grass to the rune:
""The aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June"
The osprey's green wings drfted DER me,
On the sun-tides, while glinting below,
The bob o-linls topped before me,
And the wind blew the daisies like snow.
All nature seemed filled with citation,
And the old farmer whistled for Joy:
cts the fruit of ifc's young inspiration
That fills life with gladness, my boy"
And, his scythc all embedded with flowers,
He piled up the grass to the rune:
1.-THE aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June
The gray walls with roses were glowing,
The blue lilies breathing below;
Altar were the meadow brooks flowing
BY the mill, in the high noon aglOw.
And he said, while the herOns wheeled over,
And screamed in the sun in their joy,
1.-The "a r is all fragrant with clover,
Twas clover planted, my boy" ~
And on paced the red hirted farmer,
And on fell the grass to the rune:
The aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover OF June
"'Tis the spring-time that glows with en-
deaVor.
And gives to young purpose its power:
The sun OF the autumn will never
Bring forth the ripe fruit from the flower.
Though the aftermath springs from the
clover,
The clover comes not from the fern;
Give thy hand to thy best Inspiration
safp
And on swept the sCythC of the farmer,
And on fell the grass TO the rune:
The aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June"
One day, when September was burning,
met the Old farmer again,
The thin swathcs OF the aftermath turning
Where once the thick clover had lain.
And gone were roses and lilies,
one lone robin sung in the tree:
ut is clover that comes from the clover,
But the first cut was double. you see"
And he rihcd his scythC, that old farmer,
And cut the thin grass to the rune:
Ihe aftermath of the September
Is not the Sweet clover of June
''Ah, youth is no season for leisure,
Too wide its horizons expand:
In thy purpose and struggle find pleasure
Az, mat IS worthy the brain and the hand.
And hold as the wilcs of the tcmptcr
Whatever that purpose debarS;
The lamps of the red billiard palace
Are not the white lghts of the stars"
And rung his old Scythc to the rifle
And cut the thin grass to the rune:
"Ihe aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June"
The years of my youth are all ended,
The old man sleeps under the fern.
But OFT the long days of my childhood
And the rune of the bayfield, return.
lis the seed of the spring that has promise
The choicest seed, bounteOusly sown,
And the breath of the spring-tme will never
Come back to the fields that are mown.
And over, and over, and over,
My years bring the thought of the rune:
Ihat no aftermath sweet of the clover
Is like the sweet clover of June.
-I{czfEinh IIIftel,lrnrth