Autumnal Days a constant Medium boast,
Nor chap the Ground with Heat, nor dry with Frost.
Nature on all her finish'd Labour smiles,
And the glad Peasant reaps the grateful Spoils;
Winds shake the ripen'd Seeds on Parent Earth,
And thus impregnate for succeeding Birth.
The tufted God with future Harvest swells,
While weighty Seeds fall from their native Cells,
And near their Mother-Stem: but smaller Kinds
Far from their Homes are born by sweeping Winds;
The Atoms fly, wafted on ev'ry Breeze,
Hence mossy Threds enwrap the tallest Trees;
Herbs of strange Forms on highest Rocks are found,
And spreading Fern runs o'er the barren Ground.
But, Goddess, you neglect your wonted Care,
(While blighted Orchats mourn, the Nymphs despair;)
Nor love (as once) to see the handed Bowls,
When tipling Rusticks chear their droughty Souls,
And tread with faultring Steps th'unequal Ground,
While humble Cotts with wayward Mirth resound.