So goes the morning, till the pow'rful sun High in the heav'ns sends forth his strengthen'd beams, And all the freshness of the morn is fled. The sweating trav'ller throws his burden down, And leans his weary shoulder 'gainst a tree. The idle horse upon the grassy field Rolls on his back, nor heeds the tempting clover. The swain leaves off his labour, and returns Slow to his house with heavy sober steps, Where on the board his ready breakfast plac'd, Invites the eye, and his right cheerful wife Doth kindly serve him with unfeign'd good will. No sparkling dew-drops hang upon the grass; Forth steps the mower with his glitt'ring scythe, In snowy shirt, and doublet all unbrac'd, White moves he o'er the ridge, with sideling bend, And lays the waving grass in many a heap. In ev'ry field, in ev'ry swampy mead, The cheerful voice of industry is heard; The hay-cock rises, and the frequent rake Sweeps on the yellow hay, in heavy wreaths, Leaving the smooth green meadow bare behind. The old and young, the weak and strong are there, And, as they can, help on the cheerful work. The father jeers his awkward half-grown lad, Who trails his tawdry armful o'er the field, Nor does he fear the jeering to repay. The village oracle, and simple maid, Jest in their turns, and raise the ready laugh; For there authority, hard favour'd, frowns not; All are companions in the gen'ral glee, And cheerful complaisance still thro' their roughness, With placid look enlightens ev'ery face. Some more advanced raise the tow'ring rick, Whilst on its top doth stand the parish toast In loose attire, and swelling ruddy cheek; With taunts and harmless mock'ry she receives The toss'd-up heaps from the brown gaping youth, Who flaring at her, takes his aim awry, Whilst half the load comes tumbling on himself. Loud is her laugh, her voice is heard afar; Each mower, busied in the distant field, The carter, trudging on his distant way, The shrill found know, cad up their hats in air, And roar across the fields to catch her notice: She waves her arm, and shakes her head at them, And then renews her work with double spirit. Thus do they jest, and laugh away their toil, Till the bright sun, full in his middle course, Shoots down his fiercest beams, which none may brave. The stoutest arm hangs listless by its side, And the broad shoulder'd youth begins to fail. But to the weary, lo! there comes relief! A troop of welcome children, o'er the lawn, With slow and wary steps, their burthens bring. Some bear upon their heads large baskets, heap'd With piles of barley bread, and gusty cheese, And some full pots of milk and cooling whey. Beneath the branches of a spreading tree, Or by the shad'wy side of the tall rick, They spread their homely fare, and seated round, Taste all the pleasure that a feast can give.