A Harvest Scene

— — —BEHOLD, The green fields yellowing into corny gold! While o'er their ranks an old man half appears, How hale he looks, tho' hoar'd with seventy years! His prospect mounts, slow-pac'd he strives to climb, And seems some antient monument of time; Propt o'er his staff the reverend father stands, And views heaven's blessings with uplifted hands; Gleeful in heart computes the year's increase, And portions out, in thought, his homely race, His homely race before, his hopes improve, And labour in obedience for his love; Sweepy they cut, then bind the sheafy grain, And bend beneath the burthen of the plain: His cheerful eyes with silent praises crown Their toils, and smile at vigour once his own; 'Till the mid-sun, to second nature's call, Noon-marks the distant steeple's ivied wall, Thence warn'd, he waves his arms, with giddy haste, The circling summons to a cool repast.