All but the natives of the torrid zone, What AFRIC'S wilds, or PERU's fields, display, Pleas'd with a clime that imitates their own, They lovelier bloom beneath the parching ray. Where is wild nature's heart-reviving song, That fill'd in genial spring the verdant bow'rs? Where is the dream of bliss by Summer brought? The weary soul imagination cheers, Her pleasing colours paint the future gay; In diff'rent seasons diff'rent joys we place, And these shall Spring supply, and Summer these; Yet frequent storms the bloom of Spring deface, And Summer scarcely brings a day to please. O for some secret, shady, cool recess ! Some Gothic dome o'erhung with darksome trees, Where thick damp walls this raging heat repress, Where the long aisle invites the lazy breeze. But why these plaints?-Amid his wastes of sand, Far more than this the wand'ring ARAB feels; Far more the INDIAN in COLUMBUS' land, While Phoebus o'er him rolls his fiery wheels: Far more the sensible of mind sustains, Rack'd with the poignant pangs of fear or shame; The hopeless lover, bound in beauty's chains, And he, whom envy robs of hard-earn'd fame : He, who a father or a mother mourns, Or lovely consort, lost in early bloom; Lest man should sink beneath the present pain, Fierce and oppressive is the sun we share, Hence shall our fruits a richer flavour bear, Reflect, and be content-for mankind's good Ev'n now behold the grateful change at hand, Hark! in the east loud blust'ring gales arise; Wide, and more wide the dark'ning clouds expand, And distant lightnings flash along the skies. O! in the awful concert of the storm, While hail and rain, and wind and thunder join! Let the Great Ruler's praise my song inform, Let wonder, rev'rence, gratitude, be mine. ELEGY III. WRITTEN IN HARVEST. FAREWEL 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; Farewel the bow'r with blushing roses gay, Farewel the fragrant trefoil-purpled field; Farewel the walk through rows of new-mown hay, When ev'ning breezes mingled odours yield; Farewel to these:-now round the lonely farms, Where jocund plenty deigns to fix her seat; Th' autumnal landscape, op'ning all its charms, Declares kind nature's annual work complete. In diff'rent parts what diff'rent views delight, 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, 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, smile, Tho' the blythe youth of ev'ry hamlet round, Pursu'd for these thro' many a day their toil; Yet what avail your labours or your cares? For Providence decrees that we obtain Yet, ALBION, blame not what thy crime demands, More frequent echoes o'er thy harvest lands Prolific tho' thy fields, and mild thy clime, as fair, Have fell the prey of famine, war, and time. And now no semblance of their glory bear. |