CROWN'D with the sickle, and the wheaten shear,
While  nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the doric reed once more,
Well-pleas'd, I tune. Whate'er the  frost
Nitrous prepar'd; the various-blossom'd
Put in white promise forth; and
Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,
Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.