Spring

White, thro' the neighbouring fields the sower stalks,

With measur'd step; and liberal throws the grain

Into the faithful bosom of the ground.

The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.

Be gracious, Heaven! For now laborious man

Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow!

Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend!

And temper all, thou world-reviving sun,

Into the perfect year! Nor ye, who live

In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,

Think these low scenes unworthy of your ear:

Such themes as these the rural Maro sung

To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height

Of elegance and taste, by Grece refin'd.

In ancient times, the sacred plow employ’d

The kings and awful fathers of mankind:

And some, with whom compar’d, your insect-tribes

Are but the beings of a summer's day,

Have held the scale of empire, rul'd the storm

Of mighty war; then, with unwearied hand,

Disdaining little delicacies, seiz'd

The plow, and greatly independent liv'd.