Co-mingled thus our praises they evoke,
Tho' we know well this glory soon must fade.
The fields are green with grass and new-sown wheat,
Tho' here and there a brown stalk may appear,
A dying rag-weed, ripened by the heat,
To reproduce an hundred-fold next year.
The melon yellows in the kindly sun,
The peach puts on its blush like virtuous maid,
The gourd its snow-white band like brow of nun,
While flower and gum the air with fragrance lade.