Allur'd; as the fwift eagle to the fields
Of flaughtering war or carnage: such apart Keep for their proper ufe. Our ancestors Selected fuch, for hofpitable beds To reft the stranger, or the gory chief, From battle or the chace of wolves return'd. When many-colour'd Evening finks behind The purple woods and hills, and opposte Rifes, full-orb'd, the filver harvest-moon, To light th' unwearied farmer, late afield His scatter'd sheaves collecting; then expect The artists, bent on speed, from populous Leeds, Norwich, or Froome; they traverse every plain, And every dale, where farm or cottage smokes Reject them not; and let the feafon's price Win thy foft treasures: let the bulky wain Through dusty roads roll nodding; or the bark, That filently adown the cerule stream
Glides with white fails, difpenfe the downy freight
To copfy villages op either fide,
And fpiry towns, where ready diligence,
The grateful burden to receive, awaits,
Like ftrong Briareus, with his hundred hands. In the fame fleece diverfity of wool Grows intermingled, and excites the care Of curious kill to fort the feveral kinds. But in this fubtle science none exceed
Th' induftrious Belgians, to the work who guide Each feeble hand of want: their fpacious domes With boundless hofpitality receive
Each nation's outcasts: there the tender eye
May view the maim'd, the blind, the lame, employ'a, And unrejected age; ev'n childhood there
Its little fingers turning to the toil Delighted: nimbly, with habitual speed, They fever-lock from lock, and long, and short, And foft, and rigid, pile in feveral heaps. This the dusk hatter afks; another fhines, Tempting the clothier; that the hofier seeks; The long bright lock is apt for airy stuffs; But often it deceives the artist's care, Breaking unuseful in the steely comb : For this long fpungy wool no more increase Receives, while Winter petrifies the fields:
The growth of Autumn ftops: and what though Spring Succeeds with rofy finger, and fpins on
The texture? yet in vain the strives to link The filver twine to that of Autumn's hand. Be then the fwain advis'd to fhield his flocks From Winter's deadening frosts and whelming nows: Let the loud tempeft rattle on the roof,
While they, fecure within, warm cribs enjoy, And fwell their fleeces, equal to the worth
Of cloath'd Apulian*, by foft warmth improv'd : Or let them inward heat and vigor find,
By food of cole or turnep, hardy plants.
The fhepherds of Apulia, Tarentum, and Attica, fed to cloath their fheep with fkins, to preserve and improve their fleeces.
Befides, the lock of one continued growth. Imbibes a clearer and more equal dye.
But lighteft. wool is theirs, who poorly toil, Through a dull round, in unimproving farms Of common-fields: inclofe, inclose, ye fwains; Why will you joy in common-field, where pitch, Noxious to wool, must stain your motley flock, To mark your property? The mark dilates, Enters the flake depreciated, defil'd,
Unfit for beauteous tint: befides, in fields Promifcuous held, all culture languishes ; The glebe, exhaufted, thin fupply receives; Dull waters reft upon the rushy flats
And barren furrows: none the rifing grove There plants for late pofterity, nor hedge To fhield the flock, nor copfe for chearing fire; And, in the distant village, every hearth Devours the graffy fwerd, the verdant food
Of injur'd herds and flocks, or what the plough Should turn and moulder for the bearded grain; Pernicious habit, drawing gradual on Increasing beggary, and Nature's: frowns. Add too, the idle pilferer easier there Eludes detection, when a lamb or ewe From intermingled flocks he steals; or when, With loofen'd tether of his horse or cow, The milky stalk of the tall green-ear'd corn, The year's flow-ripening fruit, the anxious hope Of his laborious neighbour, he deftroys.
There are, who over-rate our fpungy stores, Who deem that Nature grants no clime, but ours, To spread upon its fields the dews of heaven, And feed the filky fleece; that card, nor comb, The hairy wool of Gaul can e'er fubdue, To form the thread, and mingle in the loom, Unless a third from Britain fwell the heap: Illusion all; though of our fun and air Not trivial is the virtue nor their fruit, Upon our fnowy flocks, of fmall efteem: The grain of brightest tincture none so well Imbibes the wealthy Gobelins must to this Bear witness, and the costlieft of their looms. And though, with hue of crocus or of rofe, No power of fubtle food, or air, or foil, Can dye the living fleece; yet 'twill avail To note their influence in the tinging vase. Therefore from herbage of old-pastur'd plains, Chief from the matted turf of azure marle, Where grow the whiteft locks, collect thy ftores. Those fields regard not, through whofe recent turf The miry foil appears: not ev'n the streams Of Yare, or filver Stroud, can purify
Their frequent-fully'd fleece; nor what rough winds, Keen-biting on tempeftuous hills, inbrown.
Yet much may be perform'd, to check the force Of Nature's rigor: the high heath, by trees Warm-shelter'd, may despise the rage of forms: Moors, bogs, and weeping fens, may learn to fmile, And leave in dykes their foon-forgotten tears.
Labor and Art will every aim atchieve
Of noble bofoins. Bedford Level *, erft A dreary pathlefs wafte, the coughing flock Was wont with hairy fleeces to deform; And, smiling with her lure of fummer flowers, The heavy ox, vain-ftruggling, to ingulph; Till one, of that high-honour'd patriot name, Ruffel, arofe, who drain'd the rushy fen, Confin'd the waves, bade groves and gardens bloom, And through his new creation led the Ouze, And gentle Camus, filver-winding streams: God-like beneficence; from chaos drear To raise the garden and the fhady grove! But fee Ierne's moors and hideous bogs, Immeasurable tract. The traveller Slow tries his mazy ftep on th' yielding tuft, Shuddering with fear: ev'n fuch perfidious wilds, By labor won, have yielded to the comb
The fairest length of wool. See Deeping fens, And the long lawns of Bourn. 'Tis Art and Toil Gives Nature value, multiplies her fores, Varies, improves, creates 'tis Art and Toil Teaches her woody hills with fruits to shine, The pear and tafteful apple; decks with flowers And foodful pulfe the fields, that often rise, Admiring to behold their furrows wave With yellow corn. What changes cannot Toil With patient Art, effect? There was a time,
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