Now from the well-filled barn, in gusty day,
The flail’s loud beat is heard—a pleasing sound—
And from the chaff the full unspotted grain
Is winnowed by the stripling’s feeble hand.
And while the dust is flying far and wide
The wheat is gathered in, a precious store,
Tempting the factor’s mercenary eye,
And bidding famine with her sickly form
Wander afar from Freedom’s hallowed soil;
The timid quail, with well-fledged brood, draws near,