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HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME.

COME, Sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and tough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands!
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing "Harvest home."
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See, here a manikin, there's a sheet
As spotless pure as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad all in linen white as lilies.

The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart hear how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout,
Pressing before, some coming after,-
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves,
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some cross the thill-horse, some with great
Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat!
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after, with their garments rent.
Well on, brave boys! to your lord's hearth
Glittering with fire; where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast-fat beef,

With upper stories-mutton, veal,
And bacon-which makes full the meal;
With several dishes standing by-
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all-tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care-stout
beer;

Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, the commonwealth ;
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats.
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink, frolic boys, till all be blithe.
Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful that the labouring neat,
As you, may have their full of meat;
And know besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they're hang'd up now.
And you must know your lord's words

true

Feed him ye must whose food fills you;
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.

HERRICK.

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THERE was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander!-many a time,

At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwove, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him. And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,

Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

WORDSWORTH.

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