Classic Poem

Now ere sweet summer bids its long adieu,
And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew,
The bustling day and jovial night must come,
The long accustomed feast of harvest-home.
No blood-stained victory in story bright
Can give the philosophic mind delight;
No triumph please whilst rage and death destroy—
Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy.
And where the joy, if rightly understood,
Like cheerful praise for universal good?
The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows,
But free and pure the grateful current flows.
Behold the sound oak table's massy frame
Bestride the kitchen floor! The careful dame
And gen'rous host invite their friends around,
While all that cleared the crop or tilled the ground
Are guests by right of custom, old and young.
And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng
With artisans that lent their dextrous aid
When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams played.
Yet plenty reigns and, from her boundless hoard
(Though not one jelly trembles on the board),
Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave,
With all that made our great forefathers brave
Ere the cloyed palate countless flavours tried,
And cooks had nature's judgement set aside.
With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore,
The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er.
A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound,
As quick the frothing horn performs its round
(Care's mortal foe), that sprightly joys imparts
To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts.
Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies
In tempting heaps; and peals of laughter rise,
And crackling music with the frequent song,
Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.
Here once a year distinction low'rs its crest—
The master, servant and the merry guest
Are equal all, and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling
And, warmed with gratitude, he quits his place
With sunburnt hands and ale-enlivened face,
Refills the jug his honoured host to tend,
To serve at once the master and the friend,
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.
Such were the days, of days long past I sing,
When pride gave place to mirth without a sting;
Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore
To violate the feelings of the poor,
To leave them distanced in the mad'ning race
Where'er refinement shows its hated face—
Nor causeless hated: 'tis the peasant's curse
That hourly makes his wretched station worse,
Destroys life's intercourse, the social plan
That rank to rank cements, as man to man.
Wealth flows around him, fashion lordly reigns;
Yet poverty is his, and mental pains.