And gently fan them all the live-long day,
The sons of age feet happier days return,
With joys renew’d and fresh emotions burn;
Shake off the gloom contracted by their years,
As round their temples wave their hoary hairs.
Soon as the bird of morn proclaims the dawn,
And quits, on fluttering wings, the dewy lawn,
Forth rush the swains, regardless of the toil,
To break the glebe, and fertilize the soil;
With chearful hearts their constant labour ply,