Onslow. A prospect of the fields ready for harvest. Reflections in praise of industry raised by that view. Reaping. A tale relative to it. A harvest storm. Shooting and hunting; their barbarity. A ludicrous account of foxhunting. A view of an orchard. Wall fruit. A vineyard. A description of fogs, frequent in the latter part of Autumn; whence a digression, inquiring into the rise of fountains and rivers. Birds of season considered, that now shift their habitation. The prodigious number of them that cover the northern and western isles of Scotland. Hence a view of the country. A prospect of the discoloured, fading woods. After a gentle dusky day, moonlight. Autumnal meteors. Morning; to which succeeds a calm, pure, sunshiny day, such as usually shuts up the season. The harvest being gathered in, the country dissolved in joy. The whole concludes with a panegyric on a philosophical country life.

 

Crowned with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf

While Autumn nodding o'er the yellow plain

Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more

Well-pleased I tune. Whate'er the Wintry frost

Nitrous prepared, the various-blossomed Spring

Put in white promise forth, and Summer-suns

Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,

Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.

Onslow! the muse, ambitious of thy name

To grace, inspire, and dignify her song,

Would from the public voice thy gentle ear

A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows,

The patriot-virtues that distend thy thought,

Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow;

While listening senates hang upon thy tongue,

Devolving through the maze of eloquence

A roll of periods, sweeter than her song.

But she too pants for public virtue; she,

Though weak of power, yet strong in ardent will,

Whene'er her country rushes on her heart,

Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries

To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame.

 

When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,

And Libra weighs in equal scales the year,

From heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook

Of parting Summer, a serener blue,

With golden light enlivened, wide invests

The happy world. Attempered suns arise

Sweet-beamed, and shedding oft through lucid clouds

A pleasing calm; while broad and brown, below,

Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.

Rich, silent, deep they stand; for not a gale

Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain;

A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air

Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.

Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;

The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun

By fits effulgent gilds the illumined field,

And black by fits the shadows sweep along –

A gaily chequered, heart-expanding view,

Far as the circling eye can shoot around,

Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.

These are thy blessings, Industry, rough power!

Whom labour still attends, and sweat, and pain;

Yet the kind source of every gentle art

And all the soft civility of life:

Raiser of human kind! by nature cast

Naked and helpless out amid the woods

And wilds to rude inclement elements;

With various seeds of art deep in the mind

Implanted, and profusely poured around

Materials infinite; but idle all,

Still unexerted, in the unconscious breast

Slept the lethargic powers; Corruption still

Voracious swallowed what the liberal hand

Of Bounty scattered o'er the savage year.

And still the sad barbarian roving mixed

With beasts of prey; or for his acorn meal

Fought the fierce tusky boar – a shivering wretch!

Aghast and comfortless when the bleak north,

With winter charged, let the mixed tempest fly,

Hail, rain, and snow, and bitter-breathing frost.

Then to the shelter of the hut he fled,

And the wild season, sordid, pined away;

For home he had not: home is the resort

Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,

Supporting and supported, polished friends

And dear relations mingle into bliss.

But this the rugged savage never felt,

Even desolate in crowds; and thus his days

Rolled heavy, dark, and unenjoyed along –

A waste of time! till Industry approached,

And roused him from his miserable sloth;

His faculties unfolded; pointed out

Where lavish Nature the directing hand

Of Art demanded; showed him how to raise

His feeble force by the mechanic powers,

To dig the mineral from the vaulted earth,

On what to turn the piercing rage of fire,

On what the torrent, and the gathered blast;

Gave the tall ancient forest to his axe;

Taught him to chip the wood, and hew the stone,

Till by degrees the finished fabric rose;

Tore from his limbs the blood-polluted fur,

And wrapt them in the woolly vestment warm,

Or bright in glossy silk, and flowing lawn;

With wholesome viands filled his table, poured

The generous glass around, inspired to wake

The life-refining soul of decent wit;

Nor stopped at barren bare necessity;

But, still advancing bolder, led him on

To pomp, to pleasure, elegance, and grace;

And, breathing high ambition through his soul,

Set science, wisdom, glory in his view,

And bade him be the lord of all below.

Then gathering men their natural powers combined,

And formed a public; to the general good

Submitting, aiming, and conducting all.

For this the patriot-council met, the full,

The free, and fairly represented whole;

For this they planned the holy guardian laws,

Distinguished orders, animated arts,

And, with joint force Oppression chaining, set

Imperial Justice at the helm, yet still

To them accountable: nor slavish dreamed

That toiling millions must resign their weal

And all the honey of their search to such

As for themselves alone themselves have raised.

Hence every form of cultivated life

In order set, protected, and inspired

Into perfection, wrought. Uniting all,

Society grew numerous, high, polite,

And happy. Nurse of art, the city reared

In beauteous pride her tower-encircled head;

And, stretching street on street, by thousands drew,

From twining woody haunts, or the tough yew

To bows strong-straining, her aspiring sons.

Then commerce brought into the public walk

The busy merchant; the big warehouse built;

Raised the strong crane; choked up the loaded street

With foreign plenty; and thy stream, O Thames,

Large, gentle, deep, majestic, king of floods!

Chose for his grand resort. On either hand,

Like a long wintry forest, groves of masts

Shot up their spires; the bellying sheet between

Possessed the breezy void; the sooty hulk

Steered sluggish on; the splendid barge along

Rowed regular to harmony; around,

The boat light-skimming stretched its oary wings;

While deep the various voice of fervent toil

From bank to bank increased; whence, ribbed with oak

To bear the British thunder, black, and bold,

The roaring vessel rushed into the main.

Then too the pillared dome magnific heaved

Its ample roof; and luxury within

Poured out her glittering stores. The canvas smooth,

With glowing life protuberant, to the view

Embodied rose; the statue seemed to breathe

And soften into flesh beneath the touch

Of forming art, imagination-flushed.

All is the gift of industry, – whate'er

Exalts, embellishes, and renders life

Delightful. Pensive Winter, cheered by him,

Sits at the social fire, and happy hears

The excluded tempest idly rave along;

His hardened fingers deck the gaudy Spring;

Without him Summer were an arid waste;

Nor to the Autumnal months could thus transmit

Those full, mature, immeasurable stores

That, waving round, recall my wandering song.

 

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,

And unperceived unfolds the spreading day,

Before the ripened field the reapers stand

In fair array, each by the lass he loves,

To bear the rougher part and mitigate

By nameless gentle offices her toil.

At once they stoop, and swell the lusty sheaves;

While through their cheerful band the rural talk,

The rural scandal, and the rural jest

Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time

And steal unfelt the sultry hours away.

Behind the master walks, builds up the shocks,

And, conscious, glancing oft on every side

His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.

The gleaners spread around, and here and there,

Spike after spike, their sparing harvest pick.

Be not too narrow, husbandmen! but fling

From the full sheaf with charitable stealth

The liberal handful. Think, oh! grateful think

How good the God of harvest is to you,

Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields,

While these unhappy partners of your kind

Wide-hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,

And ask their humble dole.