As in the sun the circling covey bask
Their varied plumes, and, watchful every way,
Through the rough stubble turn the secret eye,
Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat
Their idle wings, entangled more and more;
Nor on the surges of the boundless air,
Though borne triumphant, are they safe; the gun,
Glanced just and sudden from the fowler's eye,
O'ertakes their sounding pinions, and again,
Immediate, brings them from the towering wing,
Dead to the ground, or drives them wide dispersed,
Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind.
AND as the load jogg'd homeward down the lane,
When welcome night shut out the toiling day,
Following he mark'd the simple-hearted swain ;
Joying to listen, on his homeward way,
While rest's warm rapture roused the rustic's lay,
The threadbare ballad from each quavering tongue,
As "Peggy Band," or the "Sweet Month of May :'
Oh, how he joy'd to hear each "good old song,"
That on night's pausing ear did echo loud and long.
The Muse might sing too; for he well did know
The freaks and plays that harvest-labour end :
How the last load is crown'd with boughs, and how
The swains and maids with fork and rake attend,
With floating ribbons 'dizen'd at the end;
And how the children on the load delight
With shouts of "Harvest home!” their throats to rend ; And how the dames peep out to mark the sight; And all the feats that crown the harvest-supper night.
UTUMN winds are sighing,
Summer glories dying,
Harvest-time is nigh.
Cooler breezes, quivering,
Through the pine-groves shivering,
Sweep the troubled sky.
See the fields, how yellow!
Clusters, bright and mellow,
Gleam on every hill ;
Nectar fills the fountains,
Crowns the sunny mountains,
Runs in every rill.
Now the lads are springing,
Maidens blithe are singing,
Swells the harvest strain :
Every field rejoices;
Thousand thankful voices
Mingle on the plain.
Then, when day declineth,
And the mild moon shineth,
Tabors sweetly sound;
And, while they are sounding,
Fairy feet are bounding
O'er the moonlit ground.
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