It was a fair and mild autumnal sky, And earth’s ripe treasures met th’ admiring eye, As a rich beauty, when her bloom is lost, Appears with more magnificence and cost. The wet and heavy grass, where feet had stray’d, 50 Not yet erect, the wanderer’s way betray’d; Showers of the night had swell’d the deep’ning rill; The morning breeze had urged the quick’ning mill; Assembled rooks had wing’d their sea-ward flight, } By the same passage to return at night; } While proudly o’er them hung the steady kite, } Then turn’d him back, and left the noisy throng, Nor deign’d to know them as he sail’d along. Long yellow leaves from oziers, strew’d around, Choked the small stream, and hush’d the feeble sound; 60 While the dead foliage dropt from loftier trees Our squire beheld not with his wonted ease, But to his own reflections made reply, And said aloud, “Yes! doubtless we must die.” “We must;” said Richard, “and we would not live To feel what dotage and decay will give; But we yet taste whatever we behold: The morn is lovely, though the air is cold; There is delicious quiet in this scene, At once so rich, so varied, so serene; 70 Sounds too delight us--each discordant tone Thus mingled please, that fail to please alone: This hollow wind, this rustling of the brook, } The farm-yard noise, the woodman at yon oak-- } See, the axe falls!--now listen to the stroke! } That gun itself, that murders all this peace, Adds to the charm, because it soon must cease.” “No doubt,” said George, “the country has its charms! My farm behold! the model for all farms! Look at that land--you find not there a weed, 80 We grub the roots, and suffer none to seed. To land like this no botanist will come, To seek the precious ware he hides at home; Pressing the leaves and flowers with effort nice, As if they came from herbs in Paradise; Let them their favourites with my neighbours see, They have no--what?--no _habitat_ with me. “Now see my flock, and hear its glory;--none Have that vast body and that slender bone; They are the village boast, the dealer’s theme, 90 Fleece of such staple! flesh in such esteem!” “Brother,” said Richard, “do I hear aright? Does the land truly give so much delight?” “So says my bailiff; sometimes I have tried To catch the joy, but nature has denied; It will not be--the mind has had a store Laid up for life, and will admit no more. Worn out in trials, and about to die, In vain to these we for amusement fly; We farm, we garden, we our poor employ, 100 And much command, though little we enjoy; Or, if ambitious, we employ our pen, We plant a desert, or we drain a fen; And--here, behold my medal!--this will show