The sun’s increasing heat now mounted high, Refreshment must recruit exhausted power; The waggon stops, the busy tool’s thrown by, And ’neath a shock’s enjoy’d the bevering hour. The bashful maid, sweet health’s engaging flower Lingering behind, o’er rake still blushing bends; And when to take the horn fond swains implore, With feign’d excuses its dislike pretends. So pass the bevering hours, so Harvest Morning ends. O Rural Life! what charms thy meanness hide; What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing; What loves, what graces on thy plains abide: Oh, could I soar me on the Muse’s wing, What rifled charms should my researches bring! Pleas’d would I wander where these charms reside; Of rural sports and beauties would I sing; Those beauties, Wealth, which you in vain deride, Beauties of richest bloom, superior to your pride. ON AN INFANT’S GRAVE Beneath the sod where smiling creep The daisies into view, The ashes of an Infant sleep, Whose soul’s as smiling too; Ah! doubly happy, doubly blest, (Had I so happy been!) Recall’d to heaven’s eternal rest, Ere it knew how to sin. Thrice happy Infant! great the bliss Alone reserv’d for thee; Such joy ’twas my sad fate to miss, And thy good luck to see; For oh! when all must rise again, And sentence then shall have, What crowds will wish with me, in vain, They’d fill’d an infant’s grave. TO AN APRIL DAISY Welcome, old Comrade! peeping once again; Our meeting ’minds me of a pleasant hour: Spring’s pencil pinks thee in that blushy stain, And Summer glistens in thy tinty flower. Hail, Beauty’s Gem! disdaining time nor place; Carelessly creeping on the dunghill’s side; Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled face Decks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride. Hail, ’Venturer! once again that fearless here Encampeth on the hoar hill’s sunny side; Spring’s early messenger! thou’rt doubly dear; And winter’s frost by thee is well supplied. Now winter’s frowns shall cease their pelting rage, But winter’s woes I need not tell to thee; Far better luck thy visits well presage, And be it thine and mine that luck to see. Ah, may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tell To see thee frost-bit I’d be griev’d at heart; I meet thee happy, and I wish thee well, Till ripening summer summons us to part. Then like old mates, or two who’ve neighbours been, We’ll part, in hopes to meet another year; And o’er thy exit from this changing scene We’ll mix our wishes in a tokening tear. SUMMER EVENING