James Thomson (1)

Think, oh, grateful think!
How good the God of Harvest is to you;
Who pours abundance o'er read more

Think, oh, grateful think!
How good the God of Harvest is to you;
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields,
While those unhappy partners of you kind
Wide-hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,
And ask their humble dole.

Cruel as death, and hungry at the grave.

Cruel as death, and hungry at the grave.

Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe,
They read more

Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe,
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme,
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering steps and slow.

He ceased; but still their trembling ears retained
The deep vibrations of his witching song.

He ceased; but still their trembling ears retained
The deep vibrations of his witching song.

Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames;
Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
read more

Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames;
Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
In Twit'nham bowers, and for their Pope implore.