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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
Where jocund Plenty deigns to fix her seat,
Th' autumnal landscape, opening all its charms,
Declares kind Nature's annual work complete.

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,
The joyful swains that raise the clamorous song,
Th' inclosure gates thrown open all around,
The stubble peopled by the gleaning throng,

Soon mark glad harvest o'er-Ye rural lords,
Whose wide domains o'er Albion's isle extend;
Think whose kind hand your annual wealth affords,
And bid to Heaven your grateful praise ascend!

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
Pursued for these through many a day their toil;

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
With toil each blessing destin'd to our use;
But means to teach us, that our toil is vain
If He the bounty of his hand refuse.

Yet, Albion, blame not what thy crime demands,
While this sad truth the blushing Muse betrays--
More frequent echoes o'er thy harvest lands
The voice of Riot than the voice of Praise.

Prolific though thy fields, and mild thy clime,
Realms fam'd for fields as rich, for climes as fair,
Have fall'n the prey of Famine, War, and Time,
And now no semblance of their glory bear.

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 rose fair towns, where toil'd the jocund swain,
Thron'd on the naked rock and mouldering wall,
Pale Want and Ruin hold their dreary reign..

Where Jordan's vallies smil'd in living green,
Where Sharon's flowers disclos'd their varied hues,
The wandering pilgrim views the alter'd scene,
And drops the tear of pity as he views.

Ask Grecia, mourning o'er her ruin'd tow'rs;
Where now the prospects charm'd her bards of old,
Her corn-clad mountains and Elysian bow'rs,

And silver streams through fragrant meadows roll'd.

Where Freedom's praise along the vale was heard,
And town to town return'd the favourite sound;
Where Patriot-War her awful standard rear'd,
And brav'd the millions Persia pour'd around:

There Freedom's praise no more the valley cheers,
There Patriot-War no more her banner waves;

Nor bard, nor sage, nor martial chief appears,
But stern barbarians rule a land of slaves.

Of mighty realms are such the poor remains?
Of mighty realms that fell, when, mad with pow'r,
They call'd for Vice to revel on their plains;
The monster doom'd their offspring to devour!

O Albion! wouldst thou shun their mournful fate,
To shun their follies and their crimes be thine;
And woo to linger in thy fair retreat,

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.

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