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Here, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth,
Nature herself invites the reapers forth;
Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest,
And gives that ardour which in every breast
From infancy to age alike appears,
When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears.
No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows-
Children of want, for you the bounty flows !
And every cottage from the plenteous store
Receives a burden nightly at its door.

Harl! where the suppms tobe now rips along: Each sturot move. Emums and strong, Whost writing form meriti hest defies, Bends v'er hit work, and every ser tries; Prostrate that warmg treasut a his feet, But spare the rising cime since and sweet. Come, Health come Jolink: hràt footed, come; Here bold rour rerets and make this your home: Each heart awaits and baits run as its own; Each moisten'd brow, that sourns to wear a frown Th' unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants stray'd; E'en the domestic laughing duits-zaid Hies to the field. the general toel to share. Meanwhile the Farmer quits his elbou-chair, His cool brick floor, his picber, and his case, And braves the sultry beams and gladly sees His gates thrown opes, and his team abroad, The ready group attendant on his word, To turn the swarth, the quis ring load to rear, Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear. Summer's light garb itself now camb'rous grown, Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down; Where oft the mastiff sculks with half-shut eye, And rouses at the stranger passing by; Whilst unrestraind the social converse flows,' And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows, And rival wits with more than rustie grace Confess the presence of a pretty face.

Now, cre sweet Summer bids its long adieu, And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew, The bustling day and jovial night must come, The long-accustomed feast of Harvest-home. No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright, Can give the philosophic mind delight; No triumph please, while rage and death destroy ; Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy. And where the joy, if rightly understood, Like cheerful praise for universal good ? The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows, But free and pure the grateful current flows.

Behold the sound oak table's massy frame Bestride the kitchen flour! the careful dame And gen'rous host invite their friends around,

For all that clear'd the crop, or till’d the ground,
Are guests by right of custom :-old and young ;
And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng,
With artizans that lent their dext'rous aid,
When o’er each field the flaming sunbeams play'd.

Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless hoard,
Though not one jelly trembles on the board,
Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave;
With all that made our great forefathers brave,
Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours tried,
And cooks had Nature's judgment set aside.
With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore,
The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er;
A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound,
As quick the frothing horn performs its round;
Care's mortal foe; that sprightly joys imparts
To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts.
Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies
In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise,
And crackling music, with the frequent song,
Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.

Here once a year Distinction low’rs its crest,
The master, servant, and the merry guest,
Are equal all ; and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
And, warn’d with gratitude, he quits his place,
With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face,
Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend,
To serve at once the master and the friend;
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.

Such were the days—of days long past I sing,
When pride gave place to mirth without a sting;
Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore
To violate the feelings of the poor;
To leave them distanc'd in the mad’ning race,
Where'er refinement shows its hated face:
Nor causeless hatred ;—'tis the peasant's curse,
That hourly makes his wretched station worse;
Destroys life's intercourse; the social plan
That rank to rank cements, as man to man:
Wealth flows around him, Fashion lordly reigns,
Yet poverty is his, and mental pains.


E'en Giles, for all his cares and watchings past, And all his contests with the wintry blast, Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestow d By gazing neighbours, when along the road, Or village green, his curly-coated throng Suspends the chorus of the spinner's song; When admiration's unaffected grace Lisps from the tongue, and beams in ev'ry face: Delightful moments !-sunshine, health, and joy, Play round, and cheer the elevated boy! “ Another spring!” his heart exulting cries ; “ Another year! with promis'd blessings rise!"


Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again :
Companion of the lonely hour!
Spring thirty times hath fed with rain
And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower,

Since thou hast stood

In frame of wood,
On chest or window by my side:
At every birth still thou wert near,
Still spoke thine admonitions clear-

And, when my husband died.

I've often watch'd thy streaming sand
And seen the growing mountain rise,
And often found life's hopes to stand
On props as weak in Wisdom's eyes :

Its conic crown

Still sliding down,
Again heap'd up, then down again ;
The sand above more hollow grew,
Like days and years still filt'ring through,

And mingling joy and pain.
While thus I spin and sometimes sing
(For now and then my heart will glow)
Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing :
By thee the noontide hour I know:

Though silent thou,
Still shalt thou flow,

And jog along thy destin'd way:
But when I glean the sultry fields,
When earth her yellow harvest yields,

Thou get'st a holiday.
Steady as truth, on either end
Thy daily task performing well,
Thou'rt Meditation's constant friend,
And strik'st the heart without a bell:

Come, lovely May !

Thy lengthen'd day Shall gild once more my native plain ; Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flower ;Companion of the lonely hour,

I'll turn thee up again.


A SPRING, O'erhung with many a flower,

The grey sand dancing in its bed, Embank'd beneath a hawthorn bower,

Sent forth its waters near my head : A rosy lass approach'd my view;

I caught her blue eye's modest beam : The stranger nodded “how d’ye do!”

And leap'd across the infant stream. The water heedless pass'd away:

With me her glowing image stay'd : I strove, from that auspicious day,

To meet and bless the lovely maid. I met her where beneath our feet

Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; Nor moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet,

Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue. I met her where the dark woods wave,

And shaded verdure skirts the plain ; And when the pale moon rising gave

New glories to her clouded train.
From her sweet cot upon the moor

Our plighted vows to heaven are flown ;
Truth made me welcome at her door,

Hannah is my own.

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