« السابقةمتابعة »
When early primroses appear,
And vales are deck'd with daffodils,
I hail the new reviving year,
And foothing hope my bosom fills;
The lambkin bleating on the plain,
The swallow feen with gladden'd eye,
The welcome cuckoo's merry strain,
Proclaim the joyful summer nigh.
The ploughman whistling o'er the lea,
The clacking of yon diftant mill,
The throftle on the budding tree,
The tow'sing skylark's early trill ;
The whispers of the western breeze,
The prattling brook that winds along i
Such fylvan founds my fancy please,
Supply my theme of rural song.
The fruitful orchard's lovely bloom
Now ushers in the sprightly May;
The skies have lost their wintry gloom,
The chilly gales are flown away :
Returning nightingales appear,
And charm with song the midnight hour ;
And I, their melting notes to hear,
Frequent my lone, sequester’d bower.
When golden morn's refulgent rays
Give lustre to the dewy vale,
Whilft June its rosy bloom displays,
And eglantines perfume the gale ;
With shepherds on the thymy down
I love to pass the summer's day,
Or trace (and mark the privet blown)
The shady thicket's winding way.
When lads and laffes, making hay,
Chat mirthful in the verdant mead,
I form for them the sportive lay,
Or pipe upon my rural reed;
With rake in hand I often walk
With them along the new-mown vale,
And cheer the swains with merry talk,
And please the nymphs with many a tale,
When reapers to the golden field
Hie blithesome in the busy morn,
I rear the shock, or fickle wield,
And smiling view the ripen'd corn.
IN wealthy autumn's evening fair,
When all the corn is gather'd in,
I to the rustic rout repair,
And help to swell the cheerful din :
We that in rural toils have join'd
Now at the farmer's board regale;
The feast enjoy with gleeful mind,
And puth about the nut-brown ale.
The treasures of the cultur'd field
Are in our barns with caution stor'd;
The juicy fruits our orchards yield
Heap up the winter's ample hoard;
The balmy sweets of toiling bees
Collected are ith careful hand;
We set our anxious minds at ease,
For plenty revels in the land.
When, favour'd by the scentful morn,
I trace thick woods or climb the rocks,
Urge on the chace with hound and horn,
And far pursue the wily fox;
His nightly ravage in the fold
The shepherd shall no longer dread,
The shouting (wains shall soon behold
The caitiff number'd with the dead.
The lawns have lost their vivid hue,
No flow'rets bloom, no lambkins bleat;
Yet with rejoicing eyes we view
Thé verdure of the springing wheat :
Revolving plenty buds around,
It sha!l our future wealth dispense;
We'll hedge with care the precious ground,
And trust it then to Providence.
Now dark December's tempest rends
The frowning skies with dreadful ire,
And, chatting with my jocund friends,
I fit beside the blazing fire.
Your herds now shiver in the mead,
Ye swains, their urgent calls obey;
Their steps to timely shelter lead,
And deal around the fragrant hay.
Contending storms now rage around,
With snow the fields are cover'd o'er :
Huge billows break with frightful sound,
And roll their terrors to the shore.
Let wealth, let fame, those dazzling gifts of
fate, Bless all the wayward fons of pomp and state ; Be mine the riches of a foul refin'd, The heart benevolent, the spotless mind, To heaven's unerring will, in humble hope, resign'd!