Never to drown the world again: henceforth, A HARVEST SCENE. AKED by the gentle gleamings of the morn, All day they ply their task; with mutual chat, But when high noon invites to short repast, ON THE DARK, STILL, DRY, WARM WEATHER, OCCASIONALLY HAPPENING IN THE WINTER MONTHS. HE imprison'd winds slumber, within their caves Fast bound: the fickle vane, emblem of change, Wavers no more, long settling to a point. All Nature nodding seems composed: thick steams From land, from flood updrawn, dimming the day, "Like a dark ceiling stand:" slow through the air Gossamer floats, or stretch'd from blade to blade The wavy network whitens all the field. Push'd by the weightier atmosphere, up springs While high in air, and poised upon his wings, The ploughman inly smiles to see upturn The happy schoolboy brings transported forth 1 The barometer. O'er the white paths he whirls the rolling hoop, Not so the museful sage: abroad he walks What cause controls the tempest's rage, or whence Amidst the savage season winter smiles. For days, for weeks, prevails the placid calm. At length some drops prelude a change: the sun With ray refracted bursts the parting gloom; When all the chequer'd sky is one bright glare Mutters the wind at eve: the horizon round With angry aspect scowls: down rush the showers And float the deluged paths, and miry fields. |