Raised by the coming plough, the merry lark
Upsprings, and, soaring, joins the high-poised choirs
That carol far and near, in spiral flight
Some rising, some descending, some beyond
The visual ken, making the vaulted sky
One vast orchestra, full of joyful songs,
Of melodies, to which the heart of man,
Buoyant with praise, in unison responds.
If with the rooks, that on the ploughman's steps
Frequent alight, a flock of sea-fowl join,
Trust not the sky serene, but look for change;
Urge then your task, and let the sun go down
Upon your toil, nor loose the reeking yoke
Till in the east the rising stars appear.

A man I knew, bowed down with age and toil,
Who dwelt upon the pleasant banks of Clyde;
Deep-read he was in books, and was by some
A wizard deemed, because he would maintain,
That in the heavens the sun stood motionless,
And that the earth moved circling. He at eve,
When summer eves were long, would sit and mend
His horses gear, and teach me, glad to learn
His rustic lore. 'One ploughing (oft he'd say)
'Ere hoof-prints frozen white indent the ground,
'Is worth a score when winter frosts have ceased
'To penetrate the mould. Let then the plough
'The sickle follow soon; and when the fields
'Are bare, and mornings clear and calm
'Begin with hoar frost to encrust the sward,
'Plough down the whitened stubble, turning up
'The reeking tilth to feel the genial beam.
''Tis change from heat to cold, from cold to heat
'Alternating, that, more than tillage, breaks
'The obdurate soil : change is the very life
'And soul of husbandry; 'tis change of crops,
'By some rotation termed, that makes the ground
'Perform its task with unexhausted power.
'The broad-leaved plants, whose product is their root,
'They least exhaust; and next the legume tribes
'With leaves less broad, and odoriferous flowers
'That in the month of June make travellers pause;
'These, through their porous and extended blades,
'Draw from the air a portion of their food.
'The plants with narrow and spear-pointed blades,
'Of seed prolific, they exhaust the most;
'For from the suffering soil is chiefly drawn
'Their sustenance. Two scourging crops of these
'Who sows successively, defrauds the soil.
'But 'tis not only that the broad-leaved kinds
'Draw from the fostering earth a smaller share
'Of vegetable food; no, of itself
'The different mode of action saves the power
'Exerted: things inanimate acquire
'New power by change, like those endued with life.
'How light the flail swings in my weary hands,
'When sudden frost has midway down the ridge
'The plough arrested! so when from the barn
'I seek the field again, each labour there
'Seems for a time like rest.'--

Vicissitude,
In all forms, how grateful! -- night and morn;
The lengthening day foretelling summer flowers,
While close they lurk enfolded in their buds,
As yet invisible; the twilight long
Of Summer's eve, that almost joins the dawn;
The ruddy dawn, all hush, till blythesome springs
The earliest lark, and carols in the beam
That, upward slanting, gilds his quivering throat;
The noontide's fervid glare, when panting herds
Betake them to the stream, lashing their sides;
The harvest's rustle, and the lengthened nights
Of moonshine sweet; the redbreast's song
Announcing Winter near; and Winter's self
With nights of fireside joys, homebred delights,
And days though short, yet not without their charm.

Now, at the ridge end stands the well-filled sack,
And hive inverted, while the sower steps,
With loaded sheet, along the furrowed ridge,
And flings the seed with equal crescent sweep,
Rejoicing in the tide, and pleased to close
His blinded eyes, as on the adjoining ridge
The passing harrows raise the golden dust.

While dry and keen the east wind down the vale
Sweeps piercingly, and makes the violet-bud,
Shrinking, delay to spread its purple flower;
While youngling rooks, rocked in their airy nests,
Importunate, with ceaseless cawing, tire
The ear, as on the swinging bough the dam
Scarce keeps her perch, and deals the new-gleaned seed,
Then is the time, upon the barren moor,
To prove your skill. Where'er, by nature dry,
It stretches far with coarsest grasses spread,
Upon a soil of shallow half-formed moss,
With gritty mould beneath, there pare the turf
And lay it loosely up, in hollow heaps,
Triangular; next kindle each, till far
The smoky clouds float rolling o'er the waste,
While plovers, screaming, sport amid the wreaths;
The ashes duly spread, no need you have
For more manure, but instant urge the plough,
That when sweet May puts on her hawthorn crown,
The new-gained field, laid down in seemly drills,
May ready for the turnip seed-time lie.

Nor is it solely on the barren moor
This mode is used; the lea that oft before
Hath felt the opening share, much gain derives
From fire; fields so prepared, whate'er the crop,
Are free from grub and insect, and each pest
That blights the farmer's hope.

All powerful Fire!
The time is not remote, when, in the field
Of peaceful toil, (as now on bloody plains
The warrior's direst instrument thou art,)
By all, thou shalt be hailed the engine prime
Of husbandry! Nor only in degrees,
So high as to calcine, thy power is proved;
Upon the new-ploughed tilth, where seeds and germs
Of noxious herbs and embrio vermin lurk,
Thy subtle element will parch the springs
Of insect and of vegetable life.

But how to bend the still ascending power
And make it downward act, requires much thought,
More knowledge in the chemic art abstruse,
Than falls to bard. Yet will I venturous dare,
And should I fail, perchance some better skilled
May light the flame, where I but strike a spark.--
Use not direct combustion to the tilth;
Vain were your cost and pains in such attempt;
Accumulate the power; and what so fit
As iron to retain or to convey,
With equal energy, or down or up
The wondrous element, which, save when bound
In chains metallic, still to heaven aspires?
And what more fitting form at once to hold
The kindled fuel, and apply the heat,
Than one well known,--the rolling cylinder,
Of bulk capacious? Glowing o'er the field
Behold it slowly drawn, and see the ridge
Send, from the hissing track, a steaming cloud.

But these are schemes for men of wide domains,
Which glad I leave to greet the lowly cot.
No month demands more of the cottar's care
Than this;-- the garden and potatoe plat
Should now be delved, and, with no sparing hand,
Manured; a task performed at twilight hours
When stated labour ends; for now the day
Is equal with the night, and in the west
Faint lingers, with a pleasant parting smile.
The dibbling done, the dropping of the chips
Is left to little hands, well pleased to lend
Their feeble help: meanwhile the parents view
The finished work, anticipating years
When these weak hands will cherish their old age,
And lay their heads in peace below the turf.

Oft in this month the cottage hen comes forth
Attended by her brood, down-clad, yet poorly fenced
Against the eastern blast, that frequent brings
A shower of biting hail, which, as it falls,
The inexperienced younglings eager chace,
And peck the pattering drops: forbid not then
The clamorous flock, in quest of crumbs, to haunt
The fireside nook : how pleasant 'tis to hear
The summoning call whene'er the prize is found!
Or see the eager mother gather in
Her tiny justling brood, beneath the chair
On which the thrifty housewife sits and spins;
Or if, to approach this citadel, intruding cur
Presume, then see her issue forth, with plumes
All ruffled, and attack the foe, and drive
Him, howling, out of doors, drooping his tail,
And shaking, as he runs, his well-pounced ears.

This renovating season, too, calls forth
The humming tribes; for now the willow leaves,
And downy flowers on river-loving palms,
Afford materials for the curious cell;
And oft, even in this chill ambiguous month,
The labourers return with loaded thighs.
Therefore by day their gateway-porch enlarge,
But still at eve let it be closed secure,
Lest nightly winds, now in the brooding time,
Should, sifting in, the genial process mar.
Nor now withhold, if much reduced their store,
The needful loan; for yet few flowers are found,
And these quite honeyless, -- the daisy fair,
Basking upon some sunny-sheltered slope,
The snow-drops, and the violets that couch
On woody but still shadeless banks, and lead,
With fragrance wafted from their purpled bed,
The wandering step to hail the vernal joy,
The virgin breath of Spring, her fairest bloom.

No surer sign is known of climate mild,
And kindly soil, than earthly woodland flowers,
And chief the violet: it marks a dry
A crumbling, active mould; nor less the thorn,
'Neath which it blows, if earthly clothed with leaves,
Screening from prying eyes the thrush's nest,
Bespeaks a genial soil, and clime benign.

The early songs of birds, if clear and full,
Ere yet the primrose blow, they too bespeak
A smiling sky; but of them all, the lark
Affords the surest signs :-- if high he soar,
And higher still, as if he circling scaled
Some airy pyramid, until his lessening bulk
At last eludes the weary sight, while faint
His song at times still meets the doubting sense,
Be sure, the higher regions of the air,
Around the buoyant chorister, breathe soft,
Breathe placidly ;-- and when the welkin's warm,
Nor sudden frost, nor rain will harm your fields.