Night-dews fall not more gently on the ground,
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
By unperceiv'd degrees he wears away;
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at the setting!
High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches
After the prize in view! and, like a bird
That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away!
Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits
Of the fast-coming Harvest! Then! oh then!