And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast!
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn,
Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn,
And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom’d spire
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.
Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close
Of labour’s day, the herald of repose,
Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth;
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales,