With brooding wing.—
Earth without labor—what a dreary waste!
Sadder to view than Asia’s barren plains
Or Afric’s sea of sand. He that would strike
Thy arm of sinews down, would make the field
A solitude, and crowded mart a den
Of thieves.—
When the moist sickle rests upon its hook,
And the rich stores of earth are gathered in,
The fair is held—a feast of fruits and flowers—