Thomas Gray

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield:
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
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Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield:
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
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Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream's, like a meteor, to the troubled air.

Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream's, like a meteor, to the troubled air.

Grim-visaged, comfortless despair.

Grim-visaged, comfortless despair.

Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.