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his trade as a shoemaker, and also sold Æolian harps of his own construction. He continued to employ his poetical powers, and, besides contributing several pieces to the Monthly Mirror, published three volumes of poems, in 1802, 1804, and 1806, successively. In 1811, appeared his Banks of the Wye, the result of a tour made by him into New South Wales, the mountain scenery of which country made a novel and pleasing impression upon his mind. Not long afterward, owing, as some say, to his engaging in the book trade, he became a bankrupt; and about the same time, suffering much from the dropsy, he left London, and took up his abode at Shefford, in Bucks, for the benefit of his health. It seems, that the decreasing sale of his works, and an indiscriminate liberality toward his friends and relations, who were poor and numerous, had materially diminished his finances; and this, together with the illness before mentioned, preying upon his mind, threw him into a state which threatened to terminate in mental aberration. This event was, however, prevented by his death, which took place at Shefford, on the 19th of August, 1823, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. He left a widow and four children; and had published, shortly before his death, May Day with the Muses, and Hazlewood Hall, a Village Drama, in three

acts.

The characteristics of the poem of the Farmer's Boy are too well known to need a repetition of them here; it is sufficient to say, that the popularity of the work is justified by the unqualified eulogy of Parr, Southey, Aikin, Watson, (Bishop of Llandaff;)

and all the most eminent critics and poets of a later date. Dr. Drake, in his Literary Hours, has taken a very masterly view of the merits of this poem, which he considers not inferior to the Seasons of Thomson, from which Bloomfield probably took the idea of the Farmer's Boy; though there is no other affinity between the two, than, as Mr. Lofft observes, "flowing numbers, feeling piety, poetic imagery and animation, a taste for the picturesque, force of thought, and a true sense of the natural and pathetic." The great difference between the composition of Thomson and Bloomfield consists in that of the latter being exclusively pastoral throughout; and, indeed, says Dr. Drake, “such are its merits, that in true pastoral imagery and simplicity, I do not think any production can be put in competition with it since the days of Theocratus." A Latin version of the Farmer's Boy, by Mr. Clubbe, was published in 1805, and it has been translated, by M. Etienne Allard, into French, under the title of le Valet du Fermier. We conclude our memoir of Bloomfield, who appears to have blended with great genius, an innate modesty and amiableness of character, with the following verse, from a very eloquent tribute to his memory, by Bernard Barton:

It is not quaint and local terms

Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay,
Though well such dialect confirms
Its power unletter'd minds to sway;
But 'tis not these that most display

Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall,-
Words, phrases, fashions, pass away,

But Truth and Nature live through all.

THE FARMER'S BOY.

SPRING.

ARGUMENT.

Invocation, &c. Seed-time. Harrowing. Morning walks. Milking. The dairy. Suffolk cheese. Spring coming forth. Sheep fond of changing. Lambs at play. The butcher, &c.

O COME, blest spirit! whatsoe'er thou art, Thou kindling warmth that hoverest round my heart, Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy, That poverty itself cannot destroy,

Be thou my muse; and faithful still to me,

Retrace the paths of wild obscurity.

No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse;
No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse,
The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill,
Inspiring awe, till breath itself stands still;
Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charm'd mine eyes,
Nor science led me through the boundless skies;
From meaner objects far my raptures flow:
O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow!
And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise
For all the blessings of my infant days!
Bear me through regions where gay fancy dwells:
But mould to truth's fair form what memory tells.

Live trifling incidents, and grace my song, That to the humblest menial belong: To him whose drudgery unheeded goes, His joys unreckon'd, as his cares or woes, Though joys and cares in every path are sown, And youthful minds have feelings of their own, Quick springing sorrows, transient as the dew, Delights from trifles, trifles ever new. "Twas thus with Giles: meek, fatherless and poor; Labour his portion, but he felt no more; No stripes, no tyranny his steps pursued; His life was constant, cheerful servitude; Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look, The fields his study, nature was his book! And as revolving seasons changed the scene From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene, Though every change still varied his employ, Yet each new duty brought its share of joy.

Where noble Grafton spreads his rich domains Round Euston's water'd vale, and sloping plains, Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise, Where the kite brooding unmolested flies; The woodcock and the painted pheasant race, And skulking foxes, destined for the chase; There Giles, untaught and unrepining, stray'd Through every copse, and grove, and winding glade; There his first thoughts to nature's charms inclined, That stamps devotion on th' inquiring mind.

A little farm his generous master till'd,
Who with peculiar grace his station fill'd;
By deeds of hospitality endear'd,

Served from affection, for his worth revered;
A happy offspring blest his plenteous board,
His fields were fruitful, and his barns well stored,
And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team,
And lowing kine that grazed beside the stream.
Unceasing industry he kept in view;
And never lack'd a job for Giles to do.

Fled now the sullen murmurs of the north,
The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth;
Her universal green, and the clear sky,
Delight still more and more the gazing eye.
Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong,
Shoots up the simple flower or creeps along
The mellow'd soil; imbibing fairer hues,

Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews; That summon from their sheds the slumbering ploughs,

While health impregnates every breeze that blows.
No wheels support the diving, pointed share;
No groaning ox is doom'd to labour there;
No helpmates teach the docile steed his road;
(Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad ;)
But, unassisted through each toilsome day,
With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way,
Draws his fresh parallels, and widening still,
Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill:
Strong on the wing his busy followers play, [day;
Where writhing earth worms meet th' unwelcome
Till all is changed, and hill and level down
Assume a livery of sober brown:
Again disturb'd, when Giles with wearying strides
From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides;
His heels deep sinking every step he goes,
Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes.
Welcome, green headland! firm beneath his feet;
Welcome the friendly bank's refreshing seat;
There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse
Their sheltering canopy of pendent boughs;
Till rest, delicious, chase each transient pain,
And new-born vigour dwell in every vein.
Hour after hour, and day to day succeeds;
Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads
To crumbling mould; a level surface clear,
And strew'd with corn to crown the rising year;
And o'er the whole Giles once transverse again,
In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain.
The work is done; no more to man is given;
The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven.
Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around,
And marks the first green blade that breaks the
ground:

In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun,
His tufted barley yellow with the sun;
Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store,
And all his harvest gather'd round his door,
But still unsafe the big swoln grain below,
A favourite morsel with the rook and crow;
From field to field the flock increasing goes:
To level crops most formidable foes;
Their danger well the wary plunderers know,
And place a watch on some conspicuous bough;
Yet oft the skulking gunner by surprise
Will scatter death amongst them as they rise.

These, hung in triumph round the spacious field,
At best will but a shortlived terror yield:
Nor guards of property; (not penal law,
But harmless riflemen of rags and straw ;)
Familiarized to these, they boldly rove,
Nor heed such sentinels that never move.
Let then your birds lie prostrate on the earth
In dying posture, and with wings stretch'd forth
Shift them at eve or morn from place to place,
And death shall terrify the pilfering race;
In the mid air, while circling round and round,
They call their lifeless comrades from the ground;
With quickening wing, and note of loud alarm,
Warn the whole flock to shun th' impending harm,
This task had Giles, in fields remote from home:
Oft has he wish'd the rosy morn to come:
Yet never famed was he nor foremost found
To break the seal of sleep; his sleep was sound;
But when at daybreak summon'd from his bed,
Light as the lark that caroll'd o'er his head.-
His sandy way, deep worn by hasty showers,
O'erarch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bowers,
Waving aloft their towering branches proud,
In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud,
Gave inspiration, pure as ever flow'd,
And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd.
His own shrill matin join'd the various notes
Of nature's music, from a thousand throats:
The blackbird strove with emulation sweet,
And echo answer'd from her close retreat;
The sporting whitethroat on some twig's end borne,
Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising morn;
Stopt in her song, perchance the starting thrush
Shook a white shower from the blackthorn bush,
Where dewdrops thick as early blossoms hung,
And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung.
Across his path, in either grove to hide,
The timid rabbit scouted by his side;
Or pheasant boldly stalk'd along the road,
Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd.

But groves no farther fenced the devious way,
A wide-extended heath before him lay,
Where on the grass the stagnant shower had run,
And shone a mirror to the rising sun,
Thus doubly seen to light a distant wood,
To give new life to each expanding bud;
And chase away the dewy footmarks found,
Where prowling Reynard trod his nightly round;
To shun whose thefts was Giles's evening care,
His feather'd victims to suspend in air,
High on the bough that nodded o'er his head,
And thus each morn to strew the field with dead.
His simple errand done, he homeward hies;
Another instantly its place supplies.
The clattering dairy maid, immersed in steam,
Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream,
Bawls out "Go fetch the cows!"-he hears no more;
For pigs, and ducks, and turkeys throng the door,
And sitting hens, for constant war prepared;
A concert strange to that which late he heard.
Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes;
With well known halloo calls his lazy cows;
Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze,
Or hear the summons with an idle gaze;
For well they know the cowyard yields no more
Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store,

Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow;
The right of conquest all the law they know :
The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed,
And one superior always takes the lead;
Is ever foremost, wheresoe'er they stray:
Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway:
With jealous pride her station is maintain'd,
For many a broil that post of honour gain'd.
At home, the yard affords a grateful scene;
For Spring makes e'en a'miry cowyard clean.
Thence from its chalky bed behold convey'd
The rich manure that drenching Winter made,
Which piled near home, grows green with many a
A promised nutriment for Autumn's seed. [weed,
Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles;
The mistress too, and follow'd close by Giles.
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat,
With pails bright scour'd, and delicately sweet.
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray,
Begins the work, begins the simple lay;

The full charged udder yields its willing streams,
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dreams;
And crouching Giles, beneath a neighbouring tree,
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee:
Whose hat with tatter'd brim, of nap so bare,
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair,
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,
An unambitious, peaceable cockade,
As unambitious too that cheerful aid
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid:
With joy she views her plenteous, reeking store,
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door;
Her cows dismiss'd the luscious mead to roam,
Till eve again recalls them loaded home.
And now the dairy claims her choicest care,
And half her household find employment there:
Slow rolls the churn, its load of clogging cream
At once foregoes its quality and name;
From knotty particles first floating wide
Congealing butter's dash'd from side to side;
Streams of new milk through flowing coolers stray,
And snow-white curd abounds, and wholesome
whey.

Due north th' unglazed windows, cold and clear
For warming sunbeams are unwelcome here.
Brisk goes the work beneath each busy hand,
And Giles must trudge, whoever gives command;
A Gibeonite, that serves them all by turns:
He drains the pump, from him the fagot burns;
From him the noisy hogs demand their food;
While at his heels run many a chirping brood,
Or down his path in expectation stand,
With equal claims upon his strewing hand.
Thus wastes the morn, till each with pleasure sees
The bustle o'er, and press'd the new-made cheese.
Unrivall'd stands thy country cheese, O Giles!
Whose very name alone engenders smiles;
Whose fame abroad by every tongue is spoke,
The well-known butt of many a flinty joke,
That pass like current coin the nation through:
And, ah! experience proves the satire true.
Provision's grave, thou ever craving mart,
Dependant, huge metropolis! where art
Her poring thousands stows in breathless rooms,
Midst poisonous smokes and steams, and rattling
looms;

Where grandeur revels in unbounded stores;
Restraint, a slighted stranger at their doors!
Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'st the country round,
Till London market, London price, resound
Through every town, round every passing load,
And dairy produce throngs the eastern road:
Delicious veal, and butter, every hour,
From Essex lowlands, and the banks of Stour:
And further far, where numerous herds repose,
From Orwell's brink, from Waveny, or Ouse.
Hence Suffolk dairy wives run mad for cream,
And leave their milk with nothing but its name;
Its name derision and reproach pursue,

And strangers tell of "three times skimm'd skyblue."

To cheese converted, what can be its boast;
What, but the common virtues of a post!
If drought o'ertake it faster than the knife,
Most fair it bids for stubborn length of life,
And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid,
Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade;
Or in the hog-trough rests in perfect spite,
Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite.
Inglorious victory! Ye Cheshire meads,
Or Severn's flowery dales, where plenty treads,
Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these,
Farewell your pride! farewell renowned cheese!
The skimmer dread, whose ravages alone,
Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone.

Neglected now the early daisy lies:

Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom'st the only prize!
Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad
Flowers of all hues, with sweetest fragrance stored;
Where'er she treads, Love gladdens every plain,
Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train;

Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies,
Anticipating wealth from summer skies;
All nature feels her renovating sway;
The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow gay,
And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen,
Display the new-grown branch of lighter green;
On airy downs the idling shepherd lies,
And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies.
Here then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue,
For every day was Giles a shepherd too.

Small was his charge; no wilds had they to

roam;

But bright enclosures circling round their home.
No yellow-blossom'd furze, nor stubborn thorn,
The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn ;
Yet ever roving, ever seeking thee,
Enchanting spirit, dear Variety!
O happy tenants, prisoners of a day!
Released to ease, to pleasure, and to play;
Indulged through every field by turns to range,
And taste them all in one continual change.
For though luxuriant their grassy food,
Sheep long confined but loathe the present good;
Bleating around the homeward gate they meet,
And starve, and pine, with plenty at their feet.
Loosed from the winding lane, a joyful throng,
See, o'er yon pasture, how they pour along!
Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll;
Sees every pass secured, and fences whole;
High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye,
Where many a nestling first essays to fly;

Where blows the woodbine, faintly streak'd with
And rests on every bough its tender head; [red,
Round the young ash its twining branches meet,
Or crown the hawthorn with its odours sweet.
Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen
Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening green :
Say, did you give the thrilling transport way?
Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play
Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride,
Or gazed in merry clusters by your side?
Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace,
At the arch meaning of a kitten's face :
If spotless innocence, and infant mirth,
Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth,
In shades like these pursue your favourite joy,
Midst nature's revels, sports that never cloy.
A few begin a short but vigorous race,
And indolence abash'd soon flies the place;
Thus challenged forth, see thither one by one,
From every side assembling playmates run;
A thousand wily antics mark their stay,
A starting crowd, impatient of delay.
Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed,
Each seems to say, "Come, let us try our speed;"
Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong,
The green turf trembling as they bound along;
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb,
Where every molehill is a bed of thyme;
There panting stop; yet scarcely can refrain;
A bird, a leaf, will set them off again :
Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow,
Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow,
Their little limbs increasing efforts try,
Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly.
Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom;
Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom!
Though unoffending innocence may plead,
Though frantic ewes may mourn the savage deed,
Their shepherd comes, a messenger of blood,
And drives them bleating from their sports and food.
Care loads his brow, and pity wrings his heart,
For lo, the murdering butcher, with his cart,
Demands the firstlings of his flock to die,
And makes a sport of life and liberty!

His gay companions Giles beholds no more;

Nor estimates alone one blessing's worth,
From changeful seasons, or capricious earth;
But views the future with the present hours,
And looks for failures as he looks for showers;
For casual as for certain want prepares,
And round his yard the reeking haystack rears;
Or clover, blossom'd lovely to the sight,
His team's rich store through many a wintry night.
What though abundance round his dwelling spreads,
Though ever moist his self-improving meads
Supply his dairy with a copious flood,

And seems to promise unexhausted food;
That promise fails, when buried deep in snow,
And vegetative juices cease to flow.
For this, his plough turns up the destined lands,
Whence stormy Winter draws its full demands;
For this, the seed minutely small, he sows,
Whence, sound and sweet, the hardy turnip grows,
But how unlike to April's closing days!
High climbs the sun, and darts his powerful rays;
Whitens the fresh-drawn mould, and pierces through
The cumbrous clods that tumble round the plough.
O'er heaven's bright azure, hence with joyful eyes,
The farmer sees dark clouds assembling rise;
Borne o'er his fields a heavy torrent falls,

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Dry dust beneath the bubbling surface lurks
And mocks his pains the more, the more he works;
Still, midst huge clods, he plunges on forlorn,
That laugh his harrows and the shower to scorn.
E'en thus the living clod, the stubborn fool,
Resists the stormy lectures of the school,
Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to please,
His head imbibes right reason by degrees:
As when from eve till morning's wakeful hour,
Light, constant rain evinces secret power,
And, ere the day resumes its wonted smiles,
Presents a cheerful, easy task for Giles.
Down with a touch the mellow'd soil is laid,

Closed are their eyes, their fleeces drench'd in gore. And yon tall crop next claims his timely aid;

Nor can compassion, with her softest notes,
Withhold the knife that plunges through their throats.
Down, indignation! hence, ideas foul!
Away the shocking image from my soul!
Let kindlier visitants attend my way,
Beneath approaching Summer's fervid ray;
Nor thankless glooms obtrude, nor cares annoy,
Whilst the sweet theme is universal joy.

SUMMER.

ARGUMENT.

Turnip sowing. Wheat ripening. Sparrows. Insects.
The skylark. Reaping, &c. Harvest-field. Dairy-
maid, &c. Labourers of the barn. The gander. Night:
a thunder-storm. Harvest-home. Reflections, &c.
THE farmer's life displays in every part
A moral lesson to the sensual heart.
Though in the lap of plenty, thoughtful still,
He looks beyond the present good or ill;

Thither well pleased he hies, assured to find
Wild, trackless haunts, and objects to his mind.

Shot up from broad rank blades that droop below,
The nodding wheat-ear forms a graceful bow,
With milky kernels starting full, weigh'd down,
Ere yet the sun hath tinged its head with brown;
There thousands in a flock, for ever gay,
Loud chirping sparrows welcome on the day,
And from the mazes of the leafy thorn

Drop one by one upon the bending corn.
Giles with a pole assails their close retreats
And round the grass-grown, dewy border beats,
On either side completely overspread,
Here branches bend, there corn o'erstoops his head.
Green covert, hail! for through the varying year
No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear.
Here wisdom's placid eye delighted sees
His frequent intervals of lonely ease,
And with one ray his infant soul inspires,
Just kindling there her never-dying fires,

Whence solitude derives peculiar charms,
And heaven directed thought his bosom warms.
Just where the parting boughs light shadows play,
Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day,
Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed,
Where swarming insects creep around his head.
The small, dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain
O'er the smooth plantain leaf, a spacious plain!
Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd,
He gains the summit of a shivering blade,
And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around,
Exulting in his distance from the ground.
The tender speckled moth here dancing seen,
The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green,
And all prolific summer's sporting train,
Their little lives by various powers sustain.
But what can unassisted vision do?
What, but recoil where most it would pursue;
His patient gaze but finish with a sigh,
When music waking speaks the skylark nigh.
Just starting from the corn, he cheerly sings,
And trusts with conscious pride his downy wings;
Still louder breaths, and in the face of day
Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark his way.
Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends,
And forms a friendly telescope, that lends
Just aid enough to dull the glaring light,
And place the wandering bird before his sight,
That oft beneath a light cloud sweeps along
Lost for a while, yet pours the varied song;
The eye still follows, and the cloud moves by,
Again he stretches up the clear blue sky;
His form, his motion, undistinguish'd quite,
Save when he wheels direct from shade to light:
E'en then the songster a mere speck became,
Gliding like fancy's bubbles in a dream,
The gazer sees; but yielding to repose,
Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close.

Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear,
With guilt no more than Giles, and no more care?
Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing,
Nor conscience once disturbs him with a sting;
He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain,
And takes his pole, and brushes round again.
Its dark green hue, its sicklier tints all fail,
And ripening harvest rustles in the gale.
A glorious sight, if glory dwells below,
Where Heaven's munificence makes all the show
O'er every field and golden prospect found,
That glads the ploughman's Sunday morning's round,
When on some eminence he takes his stand,
To judge the smiling produce of the land.
Here vanity slinks back, her head to hide;
What is there here to flatter human pride?
The towering fabric, or the dome's loud roar,
And steadfast columns may astonish more,
Where the charm'd gazer long delighted stays,
Yet traced but to the architect the praise;
Whilst here, the veriest clown that treads the sod,
Without one scruple gives the praise to God;
And twofold joys possess his raptured mind,
From gratitude and admiration join'd.

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.

Hark! where the sweeping scythe now slips
along:

Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong,
Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,
Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries;
Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet,
But spares the rising clover, short and sweet.
Come, health! come, jollity! light-footed, come;
Here hold your revels, and make this your home.
Each heart awaits and hails you as its own;
Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown:
The unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants
stray'd;

E'en the domestic, laughing dairy-maid
Hies to the field, the general toil to share.
Meanwhile the farmer quits his elbow chair,
His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease,
And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees
His gates thrown open, and his team abroad,
The ready group attendant on his word,
To turn the swarth, the quivering load to rear,
Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear.
Summer's light garb itself now cumbrous grown,
Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down;
Where oft the mastiff skulks with half shut eye,
And rouses at the stranger passing by ;
While unrestrain'd the social converse flows,
And every breast love's powerful impulse knows,
And rival wits with more than rustic grace
Confess the presence of a pretty face.

For, lo encircled there, the lovely maid,
In youth's own bloom and native smiles array'd;
Her hat awry, divested of her gown,

Her creaking stays of leather, stout and brown;
Invidious barrier; why art thou so high,
When the slight covering of her neck slips by,
There half revealing to the eager sight,
Her full, ripe bosom, exquisitely white?
In many a local tale of harmless mirth,
And many a joke of momentary birth,
She bears a part, and as she stops to speak,
Strokes back the ringlets from her glowing cheek.
Now noon gone by, and four declining hours,
The weary limbs relax their boasted powers;
Thirst rages strong, the fainting spirits fail,
And ask the sovereign cordial, home-brew'd ale;
Beneath some sheltering heap of yellow corn
Rests the hoop'd keg, and friendly cooling horn,
That mocks alike the goblet's brittle frame,
Its costlier poticns, and its nobler name.
To Mary first the brimming draught is given,
By toil made welcome as the dews of heaven,
And never lip that press'd its homely edge
Had kinder blessings, or a heartier pledge.

Of wholesome viands here a banquet smiles,
A common cheer for all ;-e'en humble Giles,
Who joys his trivial services to yield
Amidst the fragrance of the open field;
Oft doom'd in suffocating heat to bear
The cobweb'd barn's impure and dusty air;

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