A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air

Falls from its poife, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;

The clouds fly different; and the fudden fun
By fits effulgent gilds th' illumin'd field,
And black by fits the fhadows fweep along.
A gaily-checker'd heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can fhoot around,
Unbounded toffing in a flood of corn.

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These are thy bleffings, Induftry! rough power;

Whom labour ftill attends, and sweat, and pain;
Yet the kind fource of every gentle art,

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And all the foft civility of life:

Raifer of human-kind! by Nature cast,
Naked, and helpless, out amid the woods
And wilds, to rude inclement elements;
With various feeds of art deep in the mind
Implanted, and profufely pour'd around
Materials infinite; but idle all.

Still unexerted, in th' unconscious breaft,
Slept the lethargic powers; corruption still,
Voracious, fwallow'd what the liberal hand
Of bounty scatter'd o'er the favage year:
And still the fad barbarian, roving, mix'd
With beafts of prey; or for his acorn-meal
Fought the fierce tufky boar; a fhivering wretch!
Aghaft, and comfortless, when the bleak north,
With winter charg'd, let the mix'd tempest fly,
Hail, rain, and fnow, and bitter-breathing frost :
Then to the shelter of the hut he fled;

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And

And the wild feafon, fordid, pin'd away.
For home he had not; home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and fupported, polifh'd friends,
And dear relations mingle into blifs.
But this the rugged favage never felt,
Ev'n defolate in crowds; and thus his days
Roll'd heavy, dark, and unenjoy'd along :
A waste of time! till Industry approach'd,
And rous'd him from his miferable floth:
His faculties unfolded; pointed out
Where lavish Nature the directing hand
Of Art demanded; fhew'd him how to raise
His feeble force by the mechanic powers,
To dig the mineral from the vaulted earth,
On what to turn the piercing rage of fire,
On what the torrent, and the gather'd blaft;
Gave the tall ancient foreft to his axe;

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Taught him to chip the wood, and hew the stone,
Till by degrees the finish'd fabric rose;
Tore from his limbs the blood-polluted fur,
And wrapt them in the woolly vestment warm,
Or bright in gloffy filk, and flowing lawn;
With wholesome viands fill'd his table, pour'd
The generous glafs around, infpir'd to wake
The life-refining foul of decent wit:
Nor ftop'd at barren bare neceffity;

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But, ftill advancing bolder, led him on

Το pomp, to pleasure, elegance, and grace;

And, breathing high ambition through his foul,

Set

Set fcience, wisdom, glory, in his view,

And bade him be the Lord of all below.

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Then gathering men their natural powers combin'd, And form'd a Publick; to the general good Submitting, aiming, and conducting all. For this the Patriot-Council met, the full, The free, and fairly reprefented whole; For this they plann'd the holy guardian laws, Diftinguish'd orders, "animated arts, And, with joint force Oppreffion chaining, fet Imperial Juftice at the helm; yet still To them accountable; nor flavish dream'd That toiling millions must resign their weal, And all the honey of their search, to such As for themselves alone themselves have rais'd. Hence every form of cultivated life In order fet, protected, and inspir'd, Into perfection wrought. Uniting all Society grew numerous, high, polite, And happy. Nurfe of art! the city rear'd In beauteous pride her tower-encircled head; And, ftretching street on street, by thousands drew, From twining woody haunts, or the tough yew To bows ftrong-ftraining, her afpiring fons. Then Commerce brought into the public walk The bufy merchant; the big warehouse built; Rais'd the strong crane; choak'd up the loaded street With foreign plenty; and thy ftream, O Thames, Large, gentle, deep, majeftic, king of floods! Chofe for his grand refort. On either hand,

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Like a long wintery foreft, groves of mafts
Shot up their spires; the bellying sheet between
Poffefs'd the breezy void; the footy hulk
Steer'd fluggish on; the fplendid barge along
Row'd, regular, to harmony; around,

The boat, light-skimming, ftretch'd its oary wings;
While deep the various voice of fervent toil

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From bank to bank increas'd; whence ribb'd with oak

To bear the British Thunder, black, and bold,

The roaring vessel rush'd into the main.

Then too the pillar'd dome, magnific, heav'd

Its ample roof; and Luxury within

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Pour'd out her glittering ftores; the canvas fmooth,

With glowing life protuberant, to the view

Embodied rofe; the ftatue feem'd to breathe,

And foften into flesh, beneath the touch
Of forming art, imagination-flush’d.
All is the gift of Industry; whate'er
Exalts, embellishes, and renders life
Delightful. Penfive Winter chear'd by him
Sits at the focial fire, and happy hears

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Th' excluded tempeft idly rave along;

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His harden'd fingers deck the gaudy Spring;

Without him Summer were an arid waste;

Nor to th' Autumnal months could thus tranfmit

Thofe full, mature, immeasurable stores,

That, waving round, recall my wandering fong. 150 Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,

And, unperceiv'd, unfolds the spreading day;

Before the ripen'd field the

reapers ftand,

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In fair array; each by the lafs he loves,
To bear the rougher part, and mitigate

By nameless gentle offices her toil.

At once they ftoop and fwell the lufty sheaves;
While through their chearful band the rural talk,
The rural fcandal, and the rural jeft,

Fly harmlefs, to deceive the tedious time,
And fteal unfelt the fultry hours away.

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Behind the mafter walks, builds-up the shocks;
And, conscious, glancing oft on every fide
His fated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.
The gleaners fpread around, and here and there,

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Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick.

Be not too narrow, husbandmen! but fling
From the full fheaf, with charitable stealth,

The liberal handful. Think, oh, grateful think!
How good the God of Harvest is to you;
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields';
While these unhappy partners of your kind
Wide-hover round you like the fowls of heaven,
And afk their humble dole. The various turns
Of fortune ponder; that your fons may want
What now, with hard reluctance, faint, ye give.
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And Fortune fmil'd, deceitful, on her birth.
For, in her helplefs years depriv'd of all,
Of every stay, fave Innocence and Heaven,
She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,
And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale;

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