In diff'rent parts what diff'rent views delight,
Where on neat ridges wave 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 looks their lowly vills,
And bid the fields resign their ripen❜d load.

To various tasks address the rustic band,

And here the scythe, and there the sickle wield : Or rear the new-bound sheaves along the land; Or range in heaps the produce of the field.

Some build the shocks, some load the spacious wains, Some lead to shelt'ring barns the fragrant corn; Some form tall ricks, that tow'ring o'er the plains, For many a mile the rural yards adorn.

Th' inclosure gates thrown open all around,

The stubble's peopled by the gleaning throng; The rattling car with verdant branches crown'd, And joyful swains that raise the clam'rous song.

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 Heav'n your grateful praise ascend...

For tho' no gift spontaneous of the ground,
Rose these fair crops that made your vallies
smile,

Tho' the blithe youth of ev'ry hamlet round,
Pursu❜d for these thro' many a day their toil;

Yet what avail your labours or your cares?
Can all your labours or your cares, supply
Bright suns, or soft'ning show'rs, 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 tho' thy fields, and mild thy clime,
Know realms, once fam'd for fields and climes

as fair,

Have fell the prey of famine, war, and time,

And now no semblance of their glory bear.

Ask PALESTINE, proud ASIA's early boast, [oil; Where now the groves that pour'd her wine and 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 wav'd the golden grain,

Thrown on the naked rock and mould'ring 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 wand'ring 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 thro' fragrant meadows roll'd?

Where freedom's praise along the vale was heard, And town to town return'd the fav'rite 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 barbarian rule a land of slaves.

Of mighty realms are such the poor remains,
Of mighty realms that fell when, mad with pow'r,
They lur'd each vice to revel on their plains;

Each monster doom'd their offspring to devour!

O ALBION ! wouldst thou shun their mournful fates, To shun their follies and their crimes be thine; And woo to linger in thy fair retreats,

The radiant Virtues, progeny divine!

Bright Truth, the noblest of the sacred band, Sweet Peace, whose brow no ruffling frown deforms,

Fair Charity, with ever open hand,

And Courage, smiling midst a thousand storms.

O haste to grace our Isle, ye lovely train!

So may the Pow'r whose hand all blessing yields, Give her fam'd glories ever to remain,

And crown with annual wealth her laughing fields.

ELEGY IV.

WRITTEN AT THE APPROACH OF WINTER.

THE sun far southward bends his annual way,
The bleak north-east wind lays the forest bare,
The fruit ungather'd quits the naked spray,
And dreary Winter reigns o'er earth and air.

No mark of vegetable life is seen,

No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call ; Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen, Save the lone red-breast on the moss-grown wall.

Where are the sprightly scenes by Spring supply'd,

The May-flower'd hedges scenting every breeze; The white flocks scatt'ring o'er the mountain side, The woodlark warbling on the blooming trees?

Where is gay Summer's sportive insect train,

That in green fields on painted pinions play'd? The herd at morn wide-pasturing o'er the plain, Or throng'd at noon-tide in the willow'd shade?

Where is brown Autumn's ev'ning, mild and still, What time the ripen'd corn fresh fragrance yields, What time the village peoples all the hill,

And loud shouts echo o'er the harvest fields?