"The day is come I never thought to see! Strange revolutions of my farm and me."
My head! my head! the day is come I never, never thought to see; When all, with fingers and a thumb, May to thy chambers have a key!
That is, if thou wouldst but submit To come beneath the learned touch, And let the judge in judgment sit Upon thy bumps, that prove so much.
I used to think our heads might let Their own contents, at will, be shown; I never thought mankind could get An outward way to make them known.
But now the sapient hand has cut The matter short, and all may tell Thy value, as they 'd prize a nut, And know the kernel by the shell.
If half the light, that has been thrown _On_ heads, were only poured _within_, Thou wouldst not thus be left to own The darkness that is now thy sin.
But, while the world is in a blaze Of purely phrenologic light, Thou, wildered thing, art in a maze, And destitute of faith and sight.
They use a thousand meaning words Thou couldst not utter or define, Of which, to tell the truth, three thirds Were gravel, in a mouth like thine.
They hold me out an empty skull, To show the powers of living brains: 'T is just like feeling of the hull, To tell what goods the ship contains.
And, whether nature or mishap Have raised the bump, 't is all the same; The sage's crown, or dunce's cap Must be awarded as its claim.
This hobby, that so many sit, And manage with such ease and grace, I dare not try with rein or bit, It seems so of the donkey race.
And yet, my head, no doubt, 't is all A fault of thine, a want of sight, That so much said by Combe and Gall And Spurzheim cannot turn thee right.
I know not what thy case may be,-- If thou art hollow, or opaque; I only know thou canst not see, And faith declines one step to take.
This burst of light has turned thee numb, Depriving thee of every sense; So now, if tried, thou must be dumb, Nor say one word in self-defence!
Field of wheat, so full and fair, Shining, with thy sunny hair Lightly waving either way, Graceful as the breezes play-- Looking like a summer sea; How I love to gaze at thee! Pleasant art thou to the sight; And to thought a rich delight. Then, thy voice is music sweet, Softly sighing field of wheat.
Pointing upward to the sky, Rising straight, and aiming high, Every stalk is seen to shoot As an arrow, from the root. Like a well-trained company, All in uniform agree, From the footing to the ear; All in order strict appear. Marshalled by a skilful hand, All together bow, or stand Still, within the proper bound: None o'ersteps the given ground, With its tribute held to pay, At his nod whom they obey, Each the gems, that stud its crown, Will ere long, for man, lay down. Thou with promise art replete Of the precious sheaves of wheat.