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. [Illustration]