W Written 1750. HILE orient skies restore the day, Amid the sprightly scenes of morn, Ye rural thanes that o'er the moffy down For And urg'd by rude constraint resound the jovial cry ? [See See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn He finds his labour'd crops a prey; He fees his flock-no more in circles feed; And with no random curses loads the deed. Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude That nature smiles for you alone; Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude, The proud, the selfish boast disown : Yours be the produce of the foil; may it ftill reward your toil! Nor ever the defencelefs train Of clinging infants, afk fupport in vain! But tho' the various harveft gild your plains, Or the warm hope of diftant gains Is not the red-streak's future juice Athirst ye praise the limpid ftream, 'tis true : It mimic no unpleafing fong, The limpid fountain murmurs not for you. |