ELEGY. WRITTEN IN THE HARVEST. John Scott Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1122 K093079.001 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. I. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 260-264. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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ELEGY . WRITTEN IN THE HARVEST . BY THE SAME . FAREWEL the pleasant violet-scanted shade ; The primros'd-hill , and daisy-mantled mead ; The furrow'd land , with springing corn array'd ; The sunny wall , with bloomy branches spread : Farewel the bower with blushing roses gay ; Farewel the fragrant trefoil-purpled field ; Farewel the walk thro' rows of new-mown hay , When evening breezes mingled odours yield ! Farewel to these — now round the lonely farms , Where jocund Plenty deigns to fix her seat ; Th' autumnal landscape opening all its charms , Declares kind Nature's annual work compleat . In different parts what different views delight , Where on neat ridges waves the golden grain ; Or where the bearded barley dazzling white , Spreads o'er the steepy slope or wide champain . The smile of Morning gleams along the hills ; And wakeful Labour calls her sons abroad ; They leave with chearful look their lowly vills , And bid the fields resign their ripen'd load . To various tasks address the rustic band , And here the scythe , and there the sickle wield ; Or rear the new-bound sheaves along the land ; Or range in heaps the produce of the field . Some build the shocks , some load the spacious wains , Some lead to sheltering barns the fragrant corn . Some form tall ricks that towering o'er the plains , For many a mile the rural yards adorn . — Th' inclosure gates thrown open all around , The stubble's peopled by the gleaning throng , The rattling car with verdant branches crown'd , And joyful swains that raise the clamorous song , Soon mark glad harvest o'er — Ye rural lords , Whose wild domains o'er Albion's isle extend ; Think whose kind hand your annual wealth affords , And bid to heaven your grateful praise ascend . For tho' no gift spontaneous of the ground Rose these fair crops that made your vallies smile , Tho' the blithe youth of every hamlet round Pursued for these thro' many a day their toil . Yet what avail your labours or your cares ? Can all your labours , all your cares supply Bright suns , or softening showers , or tepid airs , Or one indulgent influence of the sky ? For Providence decrees that we obtain With toil each blessing destin'd to our use ; But means to teach us that our toil is vain , If he the bounty of his hand refuse . Yet Albion , blame not what thy crime demands , While this sad truth the blushing muse betrays , More frequent echoes o'er thy harvest lands The voice of riot than the voice of praise . Prolific tho' thy fields and mild thy clime , Know realms once fam'd for fields and climes as fair , Have fell the prey of famine , war , and time , And now no semblance of their glory bear . Ask Palestine , proud Asia's early boast , Where now the groves that pour'd her wine and oil , Where the fair towns that crown'd her wealthy coast , Where the glad swains that till'd her fertile soil ? Ask , and behold , and mourn her hapless fall ! Where rose fair towns , where wav'd the golden grain , Thron'd on the naked rock and mouldering wall , Pale Want and Ruin hold their dreary reign . Where Jordan's vallies smil'd in living green , Where Sharon's flowers disclos'd their varied hues ; The wandering pilgrim views the alter'd scene , And drops the tear of pity as he views . Ask Grecia , mourning o'er her ruin'd towers ; Where now the prospects charm'd her bards of old , Her corn-clad mountains and Elysian bowers , And silver streams thro' fragrant meadows roll'd ? Where Freedom's praise along the vale was heard , And town to town return'd the favourite sound ; Where patriot War her awful standard rear'd , And brav'd the millions Persia pour'd around ? There Freedom's praise no more the valley chears , There patriot War no more her banner waves ; Nor bard , nor sage , nor martial chief appears , But stern barbarians rule a land of slaves . Of mighty realms are such the poor remains ? Of mighty realms that fell when mad with power , They lur'd each vice to revel on their plains ; Each monster doom'd their offspring to devour ! O Albion ! would'st thou shun their mournful fates , To shun their follies and their crimes be thine ; And woo to linger in thy fair retreats , The radiant virtues , progeny divine ! Bright Truth , the noblest of the sacred band , Sweet Peace whose brow no ruffling frown deforms , Fair Charity with ever open hand , And Courage smiling 'midst a thousand storms . O haste to grace our isle , ye lovely train ! So may the power whose hand all blessing yields , Give her fam'd glories ever to remain , And crown with annual wealth her laughing fields .