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.