To quit their hamlet’s hawthorn wild,
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care and guilty gain!
When morning’s twilight-tinctured beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
They rove abroad in ether blue,
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.
Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,