But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page,
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And led thy weary plowman from the field,
And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod,
And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough,
And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds,
Rustling along the golden [Valley], bear
The Grain just dropping from its withering Glume.
And Winter too was thine! permit me there
To bear a part, for mine are wintry Thoughts.—