The careful peasant plies the sinewy arm,
Warm’d as he works, and casts his look around
On every foot of that improving ground :
It is his own he sees; his master’s eye
Peers not about, some secret fault to spy;
Nor voice severe is there, nor censure known; -
Hope, profit, pleasure, - they are all his own.
Here grow the humble cives, and, hard by them,
The leek with crown globose and reedy stem;
High climb his pulse in many an even row,