And the rude labourer, from his toil set free,
Leads his tired steads forth o'er the upturned lea,
Refreshing drink to yield.
The hills with light are dyed;
And pointing spires peer o'er the distant trees,
As one tall vessels in the horizon sees,
Careering in their pride!
Each meek flower, white and red,
That tufts the meadow, in fresh odour sleeps,
Ere the departing Day from off the steeps