 | The progress of refinement |  |
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MORAL REFLECTION.
When the industrious hand waves o'er the soilUncultered, golden Ceres crowns the field,
And the rough wild waste smiles. Great cause of joy,
Man's honest labour ever meets reward!
For all his arduous pains the autumnal skies,
Auspicious, yield him blessed returns profuse.
But, when with base ingratitude his heart
Is puffed, the prospects change. Destructive frosts
Untimely shed, or blighting mildew's taints,
Or tempests fierce, his expectations blast,
And check his flattering hopes. The promises,
The fairest promises of spring, are oft
Nipped in the blossom. Oft the boasted spoils
Of autumn are, in seeming cruelty,
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Their desolating sport. But man, ingrate,
Be mute. For some good end thy MAKER'S frowns
Are e'er designed, though seemingly unjust.
The ways of PROVIDENCE, although obscure
To human reason, never dare condemn.
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