And Advantageously Known. Mr. Green Of Ipswich Has Spoken Of It As A Charming Composition: Reflecting, In A Very Natural And Vivid Manner, The Series Of Interesting Images Which Touch'D The Sensibility Of A Young, An Artless, But A Most Intelligent Observer Of Nature; Plac'D In A Situation Highly Favourable To Observation, Though In Fact Not Often Productive Of It. That Originality In Such A Subject Is Invaluable: And That This Poem Appears To Him (I Know Few Men So Qualified To Judge On Such A Point) Throughout Original. And Literary Characters Who Have Earnt To Themselves Much Of True Praise By Their Own Productions, Mr. Dyer And Dr. Drake Of Hadleigh, Have Given Full And Appropriate Encomium To The Excellence Both In Plan And Execution, Of This Admirable Rural Porm. My Friend Mr. Black Of Woodbridge, Has Notic'D It In A Very Pleasing And Characteristic Letter Address'D To Me In Verse. I Believe I Shall Not Be Just To The Farmer'S Boy If I Omit To Notice That The Taste And Genius Of Mrs. Opie, Born To Do Honour To Every Department Of The Fine Arts, Have Given Her An High Sentiment Of Its Merits. And A Lady At Bury, Whom I Wish I Were Permitted To Name, Has Most Truly Characteriz'D It By Remarking, That "The Descriptions Of Country Scenes, Occupations, Customs, And Manners, Are As Natural As Possible: And That The Justness, Virtue, And Tenderness Of The Sentiments Are To Be Equally Admired." Were I To Name All The Friends And Admirers Of The Poem And Of The Simple And Amiable Manners And Character Of The Author, I Should Name, I Believe, Nearly Every Person In This Island Whom I Respect, Esteem, And Admire. It Would Be Highly Gratifying To Me Could I Now Transcribe Those Testimonies To Which I Have Generally Referr'D:... But I Abstain Here From This: And The Rather, As I Believe Mr. Dyer Will Probably Soon Express, In A Publication Of His Own, His Sentiments On This Work; And As Dr. Drake, I Know, Has Been So Struck With It As To Intend To Appropriate To An Investigation Of Its Peculiar Merit The Concluding Part Of An Enlarg'D Edition Of His Literary Hours. [Footnote: This Has Been Since Excellently Perform'D By Him. See The Appendix.] The Mention Already Made Of The Farmer'S Boy In The New London Review And In The Monthly Mirror I Have Seen With Pleasure. I Rejoice In That Fame Which Is Just To Living Merit, And Waits Not For The Tomb To Present The Tardy And Then Unvalued Wreath: I Rejoice In The Sense Express'D Not Only Of His Genius, But Of His Pure, Benevolent, Amiable Virtue, His Affectionate Veneration To The Deity, And His Good Will To All.... Obscurity And Adversity Have Not Broken; Fame And Prosperity, I Am Persuaded, Will Not Corrupt Him. I Cannot Deny Myself The Satisfaction Of Mentioning That, After An Absence Of Twelve Years, The Author Of The Farmer'S Boy Has Revisited His Native Plains. That He Has Seen His Mother In Health And Spirits: Seen Her With A Joy To Both Which Even His Own Most Expressive And Pathetic Language Would Imperfectly Describe.... Seen Other Near, Affectionate, And Belov'D Relatives: Review'D, With The Feelings Of A Truly Poetic And Benevolent Mind, The Haunts Of His Youth; The Woods And Vales, The Cot, The Field And The Tree, Which Even Recollected After So Many Years And At A Distance, Had Awaken'D In Such A Manner The Energies Of His Heart And Intellect, And Had Inspir'D Strains Which Will Never Cease To Be Repeated With Pleasure And Admiration. That He Has Been Receiv'D At Bury With An Emulous Desire Of His Society; And Certainly With The Greatest Reason. I Rejoice That I At Length Have Been Made Personally Acquainted With Him: That I Have Seen Him Here, And At His Mother'S, And At Bury: That I Have Discours'D With Him; That We Have Made Our Rural Walks Together: That I Have Heard Him Read Some Of Those Poems Which Are Not Yet Printed; But Which When They Shall Be So, Will Support Fully And Extend The Fame He Has Acquir'D. Though I Have Spent, Occasionally, Much Of My Life Among Persons Worthy Of Admiration And Of Esteem, I Can Recollect Few Days So Interesting And So Valuable To Me As These. C.L. Troston, 25 May, 1800. What I Have Said In Prose, P. Ix Of This Preface, Is Charmingly Expressed In The Language Of The Muses By Mr. Collier, In His Miscellaneous Poems Lately Publish'D. O Where On Earth Can He A Pleasure Find Whose Heart Th' Extatic Sweets Of Love Has Known, When In The Jarring Chaos Of His Mind The Gentle God No Longer Holds His Throne! On Revisiting The Place Of My Nativity. Though Winter'S Frowns Had Damp'D The Beaming Eye, Through Twelve Successive Summers Heav'D The Sigh, The Unaccomplish'D Wish Was Still The Same; Till May In New And Sudden Glories Came! My Heart Was Rous'D; And Fancy On The Wing, Thus Heard The Language Of Enchanting Spring: - 'Come To Thy Native Groves And Fruitful Fields! Thou Know'St The Fragrance That The Wild-Flow'R Yields; Inhale The Breeze That Bends The Purple Bud, And Plays Along The Margin Of The Wood. I've Cloth'D Them All; The Very Woods Where Thou In Infancy Learn'D'St Praise From Every Bough. Would'St Thou Behold Again The Vernal Day? My Reign Is Short; - This Instant Come Away: Ere Philomel Shall Silent Meet The Morn; She Hails The Green, But Not The Rip'Ning Corn. Come, Ere The Pastures Lose Their Yellow Flow'Rs: Come Now; With Heart As Jocund As The Hours.' Who Could Resist The Call? - That, Giles Had Done, Nor Heard The Birds, Nor Seen The Rising Sun; Had Not Benevolence, With Cheering Ray, And Greatness Stoop'D, Indulgent To Display Praise Which Does Surely Not To Giles Belong, But To The Objects That Inspir'D His Song. Immediate Pleasure From Those Praises Flow'D: Remoter Bliss Within His Bosom Glow'D! Now Tasted All: - For I Have Heard And Seen The Long-Remember'D Voice, The Church, The Green; - And Oft By Friendship'S Gentle Hand Been Led Where Many An Hospitable Board Was Spread. These Would I Name,... But Each, And All Can Feel What The Full Heart Would Willingly Reveal: Nor Needs Be Told; That At Each Season'S Birth, Still The Enamell'D, Or The Scorching Earth Gave, As Each Morn Or Weary Night Would Come, Ideal Sweetness To My Distant Home: - Ideal Now No More; - For, To My View Spring'S Promise Rose, How Admirably True!! The Early Chorus Of The Cheerful Grove, Gave Point To Gratitude; And Fire To Love. O Memory! Shield Me From The World'S Poor Strife; And Give Those Scenes Thine Everlasting Life! Rob. Bloomfield. London, May 30, 1800. 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. Spring I. O Come, Blest Spirit! Whatsoe'Er Thou Art, Thou Rushing Warmth That Hover'St 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 Pursu'D; 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 Chang'D 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 Sculking Foxes, Destin'D For The Chace; There Giles, Untaught And Unrepining, Stray'D Thro' Every Copse, And Grove, And Winding Glade; There His First Thoughts To Nature'S Charms Inclin'D, 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, Serv'D From Affection, For His Worth Rever'D; A Happy Offspring Blest His Plenteous Board, His Fields Were Fruitful, And His Harm Well Stor'D, 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 Its Shed The Slumb'Ring 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 Plow-Boy And The Goad;) But, Unassisted Through Each Toilsome Day, With Smiling Brow The Plowman Cleaves His Way, Draws His Fresh Parallels, And Wid'Ning Still, Treads Slow The Heavy Dale, Or Climbs The Hill: Strong On The Wing His Busy Followers Play, Where Writhing Earth-Worms Meet Th' Unwelcome Day; Till All Is Chang'D, 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 Usurp The Empire Of His Shoes. Welcome Green Headland! Firm Beneath His Feet; Welcome The Friendly Bank'S Refreshing Seat; There, Warm With Toil, His Panting Horses Browse Their Shelt'Ring Canopy Of Pendent Boughs; Till Rest, Delicious, Chase Each Transient Pain, And New-Born Vigour Swell 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 Fav'Rite 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 Sculking Gunner By Surprise Will Scatter Death Amongst Them As They Rise. These, Hung In Triumph Round The Spacious Field, At Best Will But A Short-Lived Terror Yield: Nor Guards Of Property; (Not Penal Law, But Harmless Riflemen Of Rags And Straw); Familiariz'D To These, They Boldly Rove, Nor Heed Such Centinels 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 Quick'Ning Wing, And Notes Of Loud Alarm, Warn The Whole Flock To Shun The' Impending Harm. This Task Had Giles, In Fields Remote From Home: Oft Has He Wish'D The Rosy Morn To Come. Yet Never Fam'D Was He Nor Foremost Found To Break The Seal Of Sleep; His Sleep Was Sound: But When At Day-Break Summon'D From His Bed, Light As The Lark That Carol'D O'Er His Head, His Sandy Way Deep-Worn By Hasty Showers, O'Er-Arch'D With Oaks That Form'D Fantastic Bow'Rs, Waving Aloft Their Tow'Ring Branches Proud, In Borrow'D Tinges From The Eastern Cloud, (Whence 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 White-Throat 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 Black-Thorn Bush, Where Dew-Drops 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 Bold Cock-Pheasant Stalk'D Along The Road, Whose Gold And Purple Tints Alternate Glow'D. But Groves No Farther Fenc'D 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) Lighting A Distant Wood, Giving New Life To Each Expanding Bud; Effacing Quick The Dewy Foot-Marks Found, Where Prowling Reynard Trod His Nightly Round; To Shun Whose Thefts 'Twas 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 Clatt'Ring Dairy-Maid Immers'D 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 Turkies, Throng The Door, And Sitting Hens, For Constant War Prepar'D; 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 Summon With An Idle Gaze; For Well They Know The Cow-Yard Yields No More Its Tempting Fragrance, Nor Its Wint'Ry Store. Reluctance Marks Their Steps, Sedate And Slow; The Right Of Conquest All The Law They Know: Subordinate They One By One Succeed; And One Among Them 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 Cow-Yard Clean. Thence From Its Chalky Bed Behold Convey'D The Rich Manure That Drenching Winter Made, Which Pil'D Near Home, Grows Green With Many A Weed, A Promis'D Nutriment For Autumn'S Seed. 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 Their Work, Begins The Simple Lay; The Full-Charg'D 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 Ere Again Recall 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 Thro' 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 Faggot 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 Pouring Thousands Stows In Breathless Rooms, Midst Pois'Nous 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 Countries 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 Weveny, 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 Sky-Blue." 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 Flow'Ry 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 Flow'Rs Of All Hues, With Sweetest Fragrance Stor'D; 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 Shepherd Idling 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. Nor 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! Releas'D To Ease, To Pleasure, And To Play; Indulg'D Through Every Field By Turns To Range, And Taste Them All In One Continual Change. For Though Luxuriant Their Grassy Food, Sheep Long Confin'D But Loathe The Present Good; Bleating Around The Homeward Gate They Meet, And Starve, And Pine, With Plenty At Their Feet. Loos'D 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 Secur'D, And Fences Whole; High Fences, Proud To Charm The Gazing Eye, Where Many A Nestling First Assays To Fly; Where Blows The Woodbine, Faintly Streak'D With Red, And Rests On Every Bough Its Tender Head; 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-Enliv'Ning 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 Gaz'D 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 Fav'Rite 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 Challeng'D 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, Scatt'Ring 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 Murd'Ring 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; Clos'D Are Their Eyes, Their Fleeces Drench'D In Gore; 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 Sky-Lark. Reaping, & C. Harvest-Field, Dairy-Maid, & C. Labours Of The Barn. The Gander. Night; A Thunder Storm. Harvest-Home. Reflections, & C. Summer. Ii. 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; 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 Show'Ers; 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 Wint'Ry Night. What Tho' Abundance Round His Dwelling Spreads, Though Ever Moist His Self-Improving Meads Supply His Dairy With A Copious Flood, And Seem 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 Destin'D 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 Pow'Rful Rays; Whitens The Fresh-Drawn Mould, And Pierces Through The Cumb'Rous 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, And Strikes The Earth In Hasty Driving Squalls. "Right Welcome Down, Ye Precious Drops," He Cries; But Soon, Too Soon, The Partial Blessing Flies. "Boy, Bring Thy Harrows, Try How Deep The Rain Has Forc'D Its Way." He Comes, But Comes In Vain; 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 Pow'R, And Ere The Day Resume Its Wonted Smiles, Presents A Cheerful Easy Task For Giles. Down With A Touch The Mellow'D Soil Is Laid, And Yon Tall Crop Next Claims His Timely Aid; Thither Well Pleas'D He Hies, Assur'D 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 Ting'D Its Head With Brown; Whilst 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'Ertops 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 Bough'S 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 Shiv'Ring 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 Pow'Rs Sustain. But What Can Unassisted Vision Do? What, But Recoil Where Most It Would Pursue; His Patient Gaze But Finish With A Sigh, When Musing Waking Speaks The Sky-Lark Nigh! Just Starting From The Corn She Cheerly Sings, And Trusts With Conscious Pride Her Downy Wings; Still Louder Breathes, And In The Face Of Day Mounts Up, And Calls On Giles To Mark Her 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 Wand'Ring Bird Before His Sight; Yet Oft Beneath A Cloud She Sweeps Along, Lost For Awhile, Yet Pours Her Varied Song: He Views The Spot, And As The Cloud Moves By, Again She Stretches Up The Clear Blue Sky; Her Form, Her Motion, Undistinguish'D Quite, Save When She Wheels Direct From Shade To Light: The Flutt'Ring Songstress A Mere Speck Became, Like Fancy'S Floating Bubbles In A Dream; He Sees Her Yet, But Yielding To Repose, Unwittingly His Jaded Eyelids Close. Delicious Sleep! From Sleep Who Could Forbear, With No More Guilt 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 Rip'Ening 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 Tow'Ring Fabric, Or The Dome'S Loud Roar, And Stedfast Columns, May Astonish More, Where The Charm'D Gazer Long Delighted Stays, Yet Trac'D 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 Raptur'D 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 Rips 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: Th' 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 Quiv'Ring Load To Rear, Or Ply The Busy Rake, The Land To Clear. Summer'S Light Garb Itself Now Cumb'Rous Grown, Each His Thin Doublet In The Shade Throws Down; Where Oft The Mastiff Sculks With Half-Shut Eye, And Rouses At The Stranger Passing By; Whilst 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 Jest 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 Pow'Rs; Thirst Rages Strong, The Fainting Spirits Fail, And Ask The Sov'Reign Cordial, Home-Brew'D Ale: Beneath Some Shelt'Ring Heap Of Yellow Corn Rests The Hoop'D Keg, And Friendly Cooling Horn, That Mocks Alike The Goblet'S Brittle Frame, Its Costlier Potions, 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; To Ride In Murky State The Panting Steed, Destin'D Aloft Th' Unloaded Grain To Tread, Where, In His Path As Heaps On Heaps Are Thrown, He Rears, And Plunges The Loose Mountain Down: Laborious Task! With What Delight When Done Both Horse And Rider Greet Th' Unclouded Sun! Yet By Th' Unclouded Sun Are Hourly Bred The Bold Assailants That Surround Thine Head, Poor Patient Ball! And With Insulting Wing Roar In Thine Ears, And Dart The Piercing Sting: In Thy Behalf The Crest-Wav'D Boughs Avail More Than Thy Short-Clipt Remnant Of A Tail, A Moving Mockery, A Useless Name, A Living Proof Of Cruelty And Shame. Shame To The Man, Whatever Fame He Bore, Who Took From Thee What Man Can Ne'er Restore, Thy Weapon Of Defence, Thy Chiefest Good, When Swarming Flies Contending Suck Thy Blood. Nor Thine Alone The Suff'Ring, Thine The Care, The Fretful Ewe Bemoans An Equal Share; Tormented Into Sores, Her Head She Hides, Or Angry Brushes From Her New-Shorn Sides. Pen'D In The Yard, E'En Now At Closing Day Unruly Cows With Mark'D Impatience Stay, And Vainly Str