Which spreads abundant harvests o’er the land.
But little would the sower’s pains avail,
Didst thou not send unseen through mead and vale
A swarm of Alfs, the labourer’s way to clear,
The thieving sparrows with their darts to scare,
And root out all the noxious insect race,
Which lie in ambush in each furrow’s trace.
But ’tis in autumn that we most admire
Thy power, O Asa, when with looks of fire
Thou gildest bright each waving field of corn: