How they crowd to hear his strain! All careless with his legs across, He spends his empty hours at play, And there behold a bloomy mead, In blushes the descending sun Kisses the streams, while slow they run; And yonder hill remoter grows, Or dusky clouds to interpose. The fields are left, the laboring hind His weary oxen does unbind; And vocal mountains, as they low, Re-echo to the vales below; The jocund shepherds piping come, And now begin to light their fires, Which send up smoke in curling spires! While with light hearts all homeward tend, To Abergasney I descend. DYER. THE POETRY OF AUTUMN. HARVEST-HOME. SUMMER'S toiling now is past; Harvest now hath sent her last Her last, last load. If the field containeth more, Master, give it to the poor, Abroad-abroad. Let them through the corn-field roam, Harvest-home, harvest-home,— While we welcome harvest-home: Songs shall sound and ale-cups foam, While we welcome harvest-home. MILLER. HARVEST FIELD. SOON as the morning trembles o'er the sky, At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves; Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, Be not too narrow, husbandmen! but fling Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields; |