CANTO III
While thus at ease, beneath embellish'd shades,
We rove delighted; lo! the ripening mead
Calls forth the labouring hinds, in slanting rows,
With still approaching step, and levell'd stroke,
The early mower, bending o'er his scythe,
Lays low the slender grass; emblem of man,
Falling beneath the ruthless hand of time.
Then follows blithe, equipt with fork and rake,
In light array, the train of nymphs and swains.
Wide o'er the field, their labour seeming sport,
They toss the withering herbage. Light it flies,
Borne on the wings of zephyr; whose soft gale,
Now while th' ascending sun's bright beam exhales
The grateful sweetness of the new-mown hay,
Breathing refreshment, sans the toiling swain.
And soon, the jocund dale and echoing hill
Resound with merriment. The simple jest,
The village tale of scandal, and the taunts
Of rude unpolish'd wit, raise sudden bursts
Of laughter from beneath the spreading oak,
Where thrown at ease, and shelter'd from the sun,
The plain repast and wholesome bev'rage cheer
Their spirits. Light as air they spring renew'd
To social labour: soon the ponderous wain
Moves slowly onwards with its fragrant load,
And swells the barn capacious: or, to crown
Their toil, large tapering pyramids they build,
The magazines of plenty, to ensure
From winter's want the flocks and lowing herds.
But do the threatening clouds precipitate
Thy work, and hurry to the field thy team,
Ere the sun's heat, or penetrating wind,
Hath drawn its moisture from the fading grass?
Or hath the bursting shower thy labours drench'd
With sudden inundation? Ah, with care
Accumulate thy load, or in the mow,
Or on the rising rick. The smother'd damps,
Fermenting, glow within; and latent sparks
At length engender'd, kindle by degrees,
Till wide and wider spreading, they admit
The fatal blast, which instantly consumes,
In flames resistless, thy collected store.
This dire disaster to avoid, prepare
A hollow basket, or the concave round
Of some capacious vessel; to its sides
Affix a triple cord: then let the swains,
Full in the centre of thy purpos'd heap,
Place the obtrusive barrier; raising still
As they advance, by its united bands,
The wide machine. Thus leaving in the midst
An empty space, the cooling air draws in,
And from the flame, or from offensive taints
Pernicious to thy cattle, saves their food.
And now the ruler of the golden day,
From the fierce Lion glows with heat intense;
While Ceres in the ripening field looks down
In smiles benign. Now with enraptur'd eye
The end of all his toil, and its reward,
The farmer views. Ah, gracious heaven! attend
His fervent prayer: restrain the tempest's rage,
The dreadful blight disarm; nor in one blast
The products of the labouring year destroy!
Yet vain is heaven's indulgence; for when now
In ready ranks th' impatient reapers stand,
Arm'd with the scythe or sickle: — echoes shrill
Of winding horns, the shouts and hallowings loud
Of huntsmen, and the cry of opening hounds,
Float in the gale melodious, but invade
His frighted sense with dread. Near and more near
Th' unwelcome sounds approach; and sudden o'er
His fence the tall stag bounds: in close pursuit
The hunter train, on many a noble steed,
Undaunted follow; while the eager pack
Burst unresisted through the yielding hedge,
In vain, unheard, the wretched hind exclaims:
The ruin of his crop in vain laments;
Deaf to his cries, they traverse the ripe field
In cruel exultation; trampling down
Beneath their feet, in one short moment's sport,
The peace, the comfort of his future year.
Unfeeling wealth! ah, when wilt thou forbear
Thy insults, thy injustice to the poor?
When taste the bliss of nursing in thy breast
The sweet sensations of humanity?
Yet all are not destroyers: some unspoil'd
By fortune still preserve a feeling heart.
And see the yellow fields, with labourers spread,
Resign their treasures to the reaper's hand.
Here stands in comely order on the plain,
And cluster'd sheafs, the king of golden corn,
Unbearded wheat, support of human life;
There rises in round heaps the maltster's hope,
Grain which the reaper's care solicits best
By tempting promises of potent beer,
The joy, the mead of thirst-creating toil;
The poor man's clammy fare the sickle reaps;
The steed's light provender obeys the seythe.
Labour and mirth united, glow beneath
The mid-day sun: the laughing hinds rejoice:
Their master's heart is open'd, and his eye
Looks with indulgence on the gleaning poor,
At length adorned with boughs and garlands gay,
Nods the last load along the shouting field.
Now to the God of harvest in a song
The grateful farmer pays accepted thanks,
With joy unfeign'd; while to his ravish'd ear
The gratulations of assisting swains
Are music. His exulting soul expands:
He presses every aiding hand; he bids
The plenteous feast, beneath some spreading tree,
Load the large board; and circulates the bowl,
The copious bowl, unmeasur'd, unrestrain'd,
A free libation to the immortal gods,
Who crown with plenty the prolific soil.
Hail, savour'd island! happy region, hail!
Whose temperate skies, mild air, and genial dews,
Enrich the fertile glebe; blessing thy sons
With various products, to the life of man
Indulgent. Thine Pomona's choicest gift,
The tasteful apple, rich with racy juice,
Theme of thy envy'd song, Silurian bard;
Affording to the swains, in sparkling cups,
Delicious bev'rage. Thine, on Cantium's hills,
The flow'ry hop, whose tendrils climbing round
The tall aspiring pole, bear their light heads
While thus at ease, beneath embellish'd shades,
We rove delighted; lo! the ripening mead
Calls forth the labouring hinds, in slanting rows,
With still approaching step, and levell'd stroke,
The early mower, bending o'er his scythe,
Lays low the slender grass; emblem of man,
Falling beneath the ruthless hand of time.
Then follows blithe, equipt with fork and rake,
In light array, the train of nymphs and swains.
Wide o'er the field, their labour seeming sport,
They toss the withering herbage. Light it flies,
Borne on the wings of zephyr; whose soft gale,
Now while th' ascending sun's bright beam exhales
The grateful sweetness of the new-mown hay,
Breathing refreshment, sans the toiling swain.
And soon, the jocund dale and echoing hill
Resound with merriment. The simple jest,
The village tale of scandal, and the taunts
Of rude unpolish'd wit, raise sudden bursts
Of laughter from beneath the spreading oak,
Where thrown at ease, and shelter'd from the sun,
The plain repast and wholesome bev'rage cheer
Their spirits. Light as air they spring renew'd
To social labour: soon the ponderous wain
Moves slowly onwards with its fragrant load,
And swells the barn capacious: or, to crown
Their toil, large tapering pyramids they build,
The magazines of plenty, to ensure
From winter's want the flocks and lowing herds.
But do the threatening clouds precipitate
Thy work, and hurry to the field thy team,
Ere the sun's heat, or penetrating wind,
Hath drawn its moisture from the fading grass?
Or hath the bursting shower thy labours drench'd
With sudden inundation? Ah, with care
Accumulate thy load, or in the mow,
Or on the rising rick. The smother'd damps,
Fermenting, glow within; and latent sparks
At length engender'd, kindle by degrees,
Till wide and wider spreading, they admit
The fatal blast, which instantly consumes,
In flames resistless, thy collected store.
This dire disaster to avoid, prepare
A hollow basket, or the concave round
Of some capacious vessel; to its sides
Affix a triple cord: then let the swains,
Full in the centre of thy purpos'd heap,
Place the obtrusive barrier; raising still
As they advance, by its united bands,
The wide machine. Thus leaving in the midst
An empty space, the cooling air draws in,
And from the flame, or from offensive taints
Pernicious to thy cattle, saves their food.
And now the ruler of the golden day,
From the fierce Lion glows with heat intense;
While Ceres in the ripening field looks down
In smiles benign. Now with enraptur'd eye
The end of all his toil, and its reward,
The farmer views. Ah, gracious heaven! attend
His fervent prayer: restrain the tempest's rage,
The dreadful blight disarm; nor in one blast
The products of the labouring year destroy!
Yet vain is heaven's indulgence; for when now
In ready ranks th' impatient reapers stand,
Arm'd with the scythe or sickle: — echoes shrill
Of winding horns, the shouts and hallowings loud
Of huntsmen, and the cry of opening hounds,
Float in the gale melodious, but invade
His frighted sense with dread. Near and more near
Th' unwelcome sounds approach; and sudden o'er
His fence the tall stag bounds: in close pursuit
The hunter train, on many a noble steed,
Undaunted follow; while the eager pack
Burst unresisted through the yielding hedge,
In vain, unheard, the wretched hind exclaims:
The ruin of his crop in vain laments;
Deaf to his cries, they traverse the ripe field
In cruel exultation; trampling down
Beneath their feet, in one short moment's sport,
The peace, the comfort of his future year.
Unfeeling wealth! ah, when wilt thou forbear
Thy insults, thy injustice to the poor?
When taste the bliss of nursing in thy breast
The sweet sensations of humanity?
Yet all are not destroyers: some unspoil'd
By fortune still preserve a feeling heart.
And see the yellow fields, with labourers spread,
Resign their treasures to the reaper's hand.
Here stands in comely order on the plain,
And cluster'd sheafs, the king of golden corn,
Unbearded wheat, support of human life;
There rises in round heaps the maltster's hope,
Grain which the reaper's care solicits best
By tempting promises of potent beer,
The joy, the mead of thirst-creating toil;
The poor man's clammy fare the sickle reaps;
The steed's light provender obeys the seythe.
Labour and mirth united, glow beneath
The mid-day sun: the laughing hinds rejoice:
Their master's heart is open'd, and his eye
Looks with indulgence on the gleaning poor,
At length adorned with boughs and garlands gay,
Nods the last load along the shouting field.
Now to the God of harvest in a song
The grateful farmer pays accepted thanks,
With joy unfeign'd; while to his ravish'd ear
The gratulations of assisting swains
Are music. His exulting soul expands:
He presses every aiding hand; he bids
The plenteous feast, beneath some spreading tree,
Load the large board; and circulates the bowl,
The copious bowl, unmeasur'd, unrestrain'd,
A free libation to the immortal gods,
Who crown with plenty the prolific soil.
Hail, savour'd island! happy region, hail!
Whose temperate skies, mild air, and genial dews,
Enrich the fertile glebe; blessing thy sons
With various products, to the life of man
Indulgent. Thine Pomona's choicest gift,
The tasteful apple, rich with racy juice,
Theme of thy envy'd song, Silurian bard;
Affording to the swains, in sparkling cups,
Delicious bev'rage. Thine, on Cantium's hills,
The flow'ry hop, whose tendrils climbing round
The tall aspiring pole, bear their light heads