And down the glade the twittering swallow slips,
And in the stream her nimble pinions dips.
XIII.
And now, with vigor and redoubled haste,
Our Founder delves to plant the foodful maize;
He turns the glebe, does nature’s rankness waste,
The boscage burn, and noxious brambles raze;
Then o’er the seed, on earth’s brown bosom placed,
The fertile mould with careful hand he lays;
Nor yet content,—still labors, other whiles,