The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, And sing their wild notes to the listening waste. At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun, And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more Th' expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold; But, full of life and vivifying soul,
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them thin, Fleecy and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven. Forth fly the tepid airs! and, unconfin'd, Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays. Joyous, th' impatient husbandman perceives Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers
Drives from their stalls, to where the well-us'd plough Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost. There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil, Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark. Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share The master leans, removes the obstructing clay, Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe. While thro' the neighb'ring fields the sower stalks, With measur'd step; and liberal throws the grain Into the faithful bosom of the ground:
The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.
Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious man Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow! Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend! And temper all, thou world-reviving sun, Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live
In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride, Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear: Such themes as these the rural Maro sung To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height Of elegance and taste, by Greece refin'd. In ancient times, the sacred plough employ'd The kings, and awful fathers of mankind : And some, with whom compar'd your insect tribes Are but the beings of a summer's day,
Have held the scale of empire, rul'd the storm Of mighty war; then, with unwearied hand, Disdaining little delicacies, seiz'd
The plough, and greatly independent liv'd. Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough! And o'er your hills, and long withdrawing vales, Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun, Luxuriant and unbounded: as the sea, Far through his azure turbulent domain, Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports; So with superior boon may your rich soil, Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour O'er every land; the naked nations clothe; And be th' exhaustless granary of a world.
Nor only through the lenient air, this change Delicious breathes; the penetrative sun, His force deep darting to the dark retreat Of vegetation, sets the steaming Power At large, to wander o'er the vernant earth,
In various hues; but chiefly thee, gay green! Thou smiling Nature's universal robe! United light and shade! where the sight dwells With growing strength, and ever-new delight.
From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill, Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, And swells, and deepens, to the cherish'd eye. The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd, In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales; Where the deer rustle through the twining brake, And the birds sing conceal'd. At once array'd In all the colours of the flushing year,
By Nature's swift and secret working hand, The garden glows, and fills the liberal air With lavish fragrance; while the promis'd fruit Lies yet a little embryo, unperceiv'd,
Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, [drops Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;
Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, And see the country, far diffus'd around,
One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower Of mingled blossoms; where the raptur'd eye
Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies :
If, brush'd from Russian wilds, a cutting gale Rise not, and scatter from his humid wings The clammy mildew; or, dry-blowing, breathe Untimely frost; before whose baleful blast The full-blown Spring through all her foliage shrinks, Joyless and dead, a wide-dejected waste. For oft, engender'd by the hazy north, Myriads on myriads, insect armies warp Keen in the poison'd breeze; and wasteful eat, Through buds and bark, into the blacken'd core, Their eager way. A feeble race! yet oft The sacred sons of vengeance; on whose course Corrosive Famine waits, and kills the year. To check this plague, the skilful farmer chaff And blazing straw, before his orchard burns; Till, all involv'd in smoke, the latent foc From every cranny suffocated falls :
Or scatters o'er the blooms the pungent dust Of pepper, fatal to the frosty tribe :
Or, when th' envenom'd leaf begins to curl, With sprinkled water drowns them in their nest; Nor, while they pick them up with busy bill, The little trooping birds unwisely scares.
Be patient, swains; these cruel seeming winds Blow not in vain. Far hence they keep repress'd Those deep'ning clouds on clouds, surcharg'd with That o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,
In endless train, would quench the summer-blaze, And, cheerless, drown the crude unripen'd year.
The north-east spends his rage; he now shut up Within his iron cave, the effusive south
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, Scarce staining ether; but by swift degrees, In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, Sits on th' horizon round a settled gloom: Not such as wintry-storms on mortals shed, Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope and every joy, The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm; that not a breath Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves Of aspin tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffus'd In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense, The plumy people streak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off: And wait th' approaching sign to strike, at once, Into the general choir. E'en mountains, vales, And forests seem, impatient, to demand
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