"Put ye in the sickle, for the harvest is ripe."[135] The word is spoken
in our ears continually to other reapers than the angels,--to the busy
skeletons that never tire for stooping. When the measure of iniquity is
full, and it seems that another day might bring repentance and
redemption,--"Put ye in the sickle." When the young life has been
wasted all away, and the eyes are just opening upon the tracks of ruin,
and faint resolution rising in the heart for nobler things,--"Put ye in
the sickle." When the roughest blows of fortune have been borne long
and bravely, and the hand is just stretched to grasp its goal,--"Put ye
in the sickle." And when there are but a few in the midst of a nation,
to save it, or to teach, or to cherish; and all its life is bound up in
those few golden ears,--"Put ye in the sickle, pale reapers, and pour
hemlock for your feast of harvest home."
This was the sight which opened on the young eyes, this the watchword
sounding within the heart of Turner in his youth.
So taught, and prepared for his life's labour, sate the boy at last
alone among his fair English hills; and began to paint, with cautious
toil, the rocks, and fields, and trickling brooks, and soft white
clouds of heaven.
[120] c. 1478-1511.
[121] Dante, alluding to Florence, _Paradiso_, 25.
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