Canto I
O F culture and the various fruits of earth,
Of social commerce, of the nobler arts,
Which polish and adorn the life of man;
Objects demanding the supreme regard
Of that exalted monarch, who sustains
The sceptre of command o'er Britain's sons;
The muse, disdaining idle themes, attempts
To sing. O thou, Britannia's rising hope!
The fav'rite of her wishes! Thou! O prince!
On whom her fondest expectations wait,
Accept the verse: and, to the humblest voice
That sings of public virtue, lend an ear.
Genius of Britain! pure intelligence!
Guardian, appointed by the One Supreme,
With influential energy benign
To guide the weal of this distinguish'd isle;
O! wake the breast of her aspiring son,
Inform his numbers, aid his bold design,
Who, in a daring flight, presumes to mark
The glorious track her monarchs should pursue.
From cultivation, from the useful toils
Of the laborious hind, the streams of wealth
And plenty flow. Deign then, illustrious youth!
To bring th' observing eye: the liberal hand,
And, with a spirit congenial to your birth,
Regard his various labours through the year:
So shall the labourer smile, and you improve
The happy country you are born to rule.
The year declining, now hath left the fields
Divested of their honours, the strong glebe
Exhausted, waits the culture of the plough,
To renovate her powers. 'Tis now, intent
On honest gain, the cautious husbandman
Surveys the country round, solicitous
To fix his habitation on a soil
Propitious to his hopes and to his cares.
O ye, whom fortune in her silken robe
Enwraps benign; whom plenty's bounteous hand
Hath favour'd with distinction! O look down,
With smiles indulgent, on his new designs!
Assist his useful works, facilitate
His honest aims: nor in exaction's gripe
Enthral th' endeavouring swain. Think not his toils
Were meant alone to softer you in ease
And pamper'd indolence; nor grudge the meed
Which heaven in mercy gives to cheer the hand,
The labouring hand of useful industry.
Be yours the joy to propagate content;
With bounteous heaven co-operate, and reward
The poor man's toil, whence all your riches spring.
As in a garden, th' enlivening air
Is fill'd with odours, drawn from those fair flowers
Which by its influence rise; so in his breast
Benevolent, who gives the swains to thrive,
Reflected live the joys his virtues lent.
But come, young farmer, though by fortune fix'd
On fields luxuriant, where the fruitful soil
Gives labour hope; where sheltering shades arise,
Thick fences guard, and bubbling fountains flow;
Where arable and pasture duly mix;
Yet, ere thy toils begin, attend the muse,
And catch the moral lessons of her song.
Be frugal and be blest; frugality
Will give thee competence; thy gains are small,
Too small to bear profusion's wasteful hand.
Make temperance thy companion, so shall health
Sir on thy brow, invigorating thy frame
To every useful work. And if to these
Thou happily shalt join one virtue more,
The love of industry, the glowing joy
Felt from each new improvement; then fair peace,
With modest neatness in her decent garb,
Shall walk around thy dwelling; while the great,
Tir'd with the vast fatigue of indolence,
Fill'd with disease by luxury and sloth,
Impatient curse the dilatory day,
And look with envy on thy happier state.
Prepar'd with these plain virtues, now the swain
With courage enters on his rural works.
First he provides the needful implements.
Of these, the honour'd plough claims chief regard.
Hence bread to man, who heretofore on mast
Fed with his fellow brute in woods and wilds,
Himself uncultur'd as the soil he trod.
The spiked harrow next, to break the clods,
And spread the surface of the new plough'd field;
Nor is the roller's friendly aid unfought.
Hoes he provides, with various arms prepar'd,
T' encounter all the numerous host of weeds,
Which rise malignant, menacing his hopes.
The sweeping scythe's keen edge he whets for grass,
And turns the crooked sickle for his corn.
The fork to spread, the gathering rake to save,
With providential care he treasures up.
His strong capacious wain, the dull slow ox
Drags on, deep loaden, grinding the rough ruts;
While with his lighter team, the sprightly horse
Moves to the music of his tinkling bells.
Nor will his foresight lack the whirling stail,
Whose battering strokes force from the loosen'd sheaves
Their hidden stores profuse, which now demand
The quick rotation of the winnowing san,
With blasts successive, wasting far away
The worthless chass, to clear the golden grain.
And now compell'd to hire aslist unstrength,
Away he hastens to some neighbouring town,
Where willing fervitude, for mutual wants,
Of hind and farmer, holds her annual feast
'Tis here the toiling hand of industry
Employment seeks. The skilful ploughman, lord
And leader of the rustic band; who claims
His boy attendant, conscious of his worth
And dignity superior; boasting skill
To guide with steadiness the sliding share,
To scatter with an equal hand the seed,
And with a master scythe to head the train,
When the ripe meadow asks the mower's hand.
Here too, the thresher, brandishing his flail,
Bespeaks a master, whose full barns demand
A labouring arm, now ready to give up
Their treasure, and exchange their hoarded grain
For heaps of gold, the meed of honest toil.
The sun-burnt shepherd too, his slouching hat
Distinguish'd well with fleecy locks, expects
Observance; skill'd in wool, and lesson'd deep
O F culture and the various fruits of earth,
Of social commerce, of the nobler arts,
Which polish and adorn the life of man;
Objects demanding the supreme regard
Of that exalted monarch, who sustains
The sceptre of command o'er Britain's sons;
The muse, disdaining idle themes, attempts
To sing. O thou, Britannia's rising hope!
The fav'rite of her wishes! Thou! O prince!
On whom her fondest expectations wait,
Accept the verse: and, to the humblest voice
That sings of public virtue, lend an ear.
Genius of Britain! pure intelligence!
Guardian, appointed by the One Supreme,
With influential energy benign
To guide the weal of this distinguish'd isle;
O! wake the breast of her aspiring son,
Inform his numbers, aid his bold design,
Who, in a daring flight, presumes to mark
The glorious track her monarchs should pursue.
From cultivation, from the useful toils
Of the laborious hind, the streams of wealth
And plenty flow. Deign then, illustrious youth!
To bring th' observing eye: the liberal hand,
And, with a spirit congenial to your birth,
Regard his various labours through the year:
So shall the labourer smile, and you improve
The happy country you are born to rule.
The year declining, now hath left the fields
Divested of their honours, the strong glebe
Exhausted, waits the culture of the plough,
To renovate her powers. 'Tis now, intent
On honest gain, the cautious husbandman
Surveys the country round, solicitous
To fix his habitation on a soil
Propitious to his hopes and to his cares.
O ye, whom fortune in her silken robe
Enwraps benign; whom plenty's bounteous hand
Hath favour'd with distinction! O look down,
With smiles indulgent, on his new designs!
Assist his useful works, facilitate
His honest aims: nor in exaction's gripe
Enthral th' endeavouring swain. Think not his toils
Were meant alone to softer you in ease
And pamper'd indolence; nor grudge the meed
Which heaven in mercy gives to cheer the hand,
The labouring hand of useful industry.
Be yours the joy to propagate content;
With bounteous heaven co-operate, and reward
The poor man's toil, whence all your riches spring.
As in a garden, th' enlivening air
Is fill'd with odours, drawn from those fair flowers
Which by its influence rise; so in his breast
Benevolent, who gives the swains to thrive,
Reflected live the joys his virtues lent.
But come, young farmer, though by fortune fix'd
On fields luxuriant, where the fruitful soil
Gives labour hope; where sheltering shades arise,
Thick fences guard, and bubbling fountains flow;
Where arable and pasture duly mix;
Yet, ere thy toils begin, attend the muse,
And catch the moral lessons of her song.
Be frugal and be blest; frugality
Will give thee competence; thy gains are small,
Too small to bear profusion's wasteful hand.
Make temperance thy companion, so shall health
Sir on thy brow, invigorating thy frame
To every useful work. And if to these
Thou happily shalt join one virtue more,
The love of industry, the glowing joy
Felt from each new improvement; then fair peace,
With modest neatness in her decent garb,
Shall walk around thy dwelling; while the great,
Tir'd with the vast fatigue of indolence,
Fill'd with disease by luxury and sloth,
Impatient curse the dilatory day,
And look with envy on thy happier state.
Prepar'd with these plain virtues, now the swain
With courage enters on his rural works.
First he provides the needful implements.
Of these, the honour'd plough claims chief regard.
Hence bread to man, who heretofore on mast
Fed with his fellow brute in woods and wilds,
Himself uncultur'd as the soil he trod.
The spiked harrow next, to break the clods,
And spread the surface of the new plough'd field;
Nor is the roller's friendly aid unfought.
Hoes he provides, with various arms prepar'd,
T' encounter all the numerous host of weeds,
Which rise malignant, menacing his hopes.
The sweeping scythe's keen edge he whets for grass,
And turns the crooked sickle for his corn.
The fork to spread, the gathering rake to save,
With providential care he treasures up.
His strong capacious wain, the dull slow ox
Drags on, deep loaden, grinding the rough ruts;
While with his lighter team, the sprightly horse
Moves to the music of his tinkling bells.
Nor will his foresight lack the whirling stail,
Whose battering strokes force from the loosen'd sheaves
Their hidden stores profuse, which now demand
The quick rotation of the winnowing san,
With blasts successive, wasting far away
The worthless chass, to clear the golden grain.
And now compell'd to hire aslist unstrength,
Away he hastens to some neighbouring town,
Where willing fervitude, for mutual wants,
Of hind and farmer, holds her annual feast
'Tis here the toiling hand of industry
Employment seeks. The skilful ploughman, lord
And leader of the rustic band; who claims
His boy attendant, conscious of his worth
And dignity superior; boasting skill
To guide with steadiness the sliding share,
To scatter with an equal hand the seed,
And with a master scythe to head the train,
When the ripe meadow asks the mower's hand.
Here too, the thresher, brandishing his flail,
Bespeaks a master, whose full barns demand
A labouring arm, now ready to give up
Their treasure, and exchange their hoarded grain
For heaps of gold, the meed of honest toil.
The sun-burnt shepherd too, his slouching hat
Distinguish'd well with fleecy locks, expects
Observance; skill'd in wool, and lesson'd deep