ELEGY, WRITTEN IN HARVEST. [IBID.] FAREWELL the pleasant violet-scented shade, The primros'd hill, and daisy-mantled mead '; The furrow'd land, with springing corn array'd; The sunny wall, with bloomy branches spread: Farewell the bower with blushing roses gay; Farewell the fragrant trefoil-purpled field; Farewell the walk through rows of new-mown hay, When evening breezes mingled odours yield: Of these no more-now round the lonely farms In different parts what different views delight, Where on neat ridges waves the golden grain; Or where the bearded barley, dazzling white, Spreads o'er the steepy slope or wide champaign. The smile of Morning gleams along the hills, And wakeful Labour calls her sons abroad; They leave with cheerful look their lowly vills, And bid the fields resign their ripen❜d load. In various tasks engage the rustic bands, And here the scythe, and there the sickle wield; Or rear the new-bound sheaves along the lands, Or range in heaps the swarths upon the field. Some build the shocks, some load the spacious wains, Some lead to sheltering barns the fragrant corn; Some form tall ricks, that towering o'er the plains For many a mile, the homestead yards adorn. The rattling car with verdant branches crown'd, Soon mark glad harvest o'er-Ye rural lords, For though no gift spontaneous of the ground that made your vallies smile, Rose these fair crops Though the blithe youth of every hamlet round Yet what avail your labours or your cares? Can all your labours, all your cares, supply Bright suns, or softening showers, or tepid airs, Or one indulgent influence of the sky? For Providence decrees, that we obtain Yet, Albion, blame not what thy crime demands, Prolific though thy fields, and mild thy clime, Ask Palestine, proud Asia's early boast, Where now the groves that pour'd her wine and oil; Where the fair towns that crown'd her wealthy coast; Where the glad swains that till'd her fertile soil: Ask, and behold, and mourn her hapless fall! Where Jordan's vallies smil'd in living green, Ask Grecia, mourning o'er her ruin'd tow'rs; And silver streams through fragrant meadows roll'd. Where Freedom's praise along the vale was heard, There Freedom's praise no more the valley cheers, Nor bard, nor sage, nor martial chief appears, Of mighty realms are such the poor remains? O Albion! wouldst thou shun their mournful fate, The radiant Virtues, progeny divine! Fair Truth, with dauntless eye and aspect bland; Sweet Peace, whose brow no angry frown deforms; Soft Charity, with ever-open hand; And Courage, calm amid surrounding storms. O lovely train! O haste to grace our isle! So may the Power who every blessing yields, Bid on her clime serenest seasons smile, And crown with annual wealth her far-fam'd fields. |