A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd impatient of delay. Like the fond dove, from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, "Come, let us try our speed;" Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, BLOOMFIELD. THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. SHOT up from broad rank blades that droop below, The nodding wheat-ear forms a graceful bow, With milky kernels starting full, weigh'd down, Ere yet the sun hath tinged its head with brown; Whilst thousands in a flock, for ever gay, Loud-chirping sparrows welcome in the day, And from the mazes of the leafy thorn Drop one by one upon the bending corn. Giles with a pole assails their close retreats, And round the grass-grown dewy border beats; On either side completely overspread, Here branches bend, there corn o'ertops his head. Green covert, hail for thro' the varying year No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted sees His frequent intervals of lonely ease, And with one ray his infant soul inspires, Just kindling there her never-dying fires, Whence solitude derives peculiar charms, And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. Just where the parting bough's light shadows play, Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed, Where swarming insects creep around his head. The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain O'er the smooth plantain leaf, a spacious plain! Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd, He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade, And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around, Exulting in his distance from the ground. The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, What, but recoil where most it would pursue; THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings, And place the wandering bird before his sight; Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear, FAREWELL, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowing, And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame ! But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, |