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A HARVEST Scene.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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222

A HARVEST Scene.

Behold——
The Green Fields Yellowing into Corny Gold!
White 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 up-lifted 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;

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Sweepy they Cut, then Bind the Sheafy-Grain,
And bend beneath the Burthen of the Plain;
His chearful 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 Ivy'd Wall,
Thence warn'd, he waves his Arms, with giddy Haste,
The circling Summons to a cool Repaste.