Now on hills, rocks, and streams, and vales, and plains,
Full looks the shining Day.—Our gardens wear
The gorgeous robes of the consummate Year.
With laugh, and shout, and song, stout Maids and Swains
Heap high the fragrant hay, as thro' rough lanes
Rings the yet empty waggon.—See in air
The pendent cherries, red with tempting stains,
Gleam thro' their boughs.—Summer, thy bright career
Must slacken soon in Autumn's milder sway;
Then thy now heapt and jocund meads shall stand
Smooth,—vacant,—silent,—thro' th' exulting Land
As wave thy Rival's golden fields, and gay
Her Reapers throng. She smiles, and binds the sheaves;
Then bends her parting step o'er fall'n and rustling leaves.
June 27th, 1782.