Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead,
  Or matted blade, wary, and close they sit.
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  When spring shines forth, season of love and joy,
  In the moist marsh, ’mong beds of rushes hid,
  They cool their boiling blood:  when Summer suns
  Bake the cleft earth, to thick wide-waving fields
  Of corn full-grown, they lead their helpless young: 
  But when autumnal torrents, and fierce rains
  Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank
  Their forms they delve, and cautiously avoid

  The dripping covert:  yet when Winter’s cold
  Their limbs benumbs, thither with speed returned
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  In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking creep
  Among the withered leaves, thus changing still,
  As fancy prompts them, or as food invites. 
  But every season carefully observed,
  The inconstant winds, the fickle element,
  The wise experienced huntsman soon may find
  His subtle, various game, nor waste in vain
  His tedious hours, till his impatient hounds
  With disappointment vexed, each springing lark
  Babbling pursue, far scattered o’er the fields.
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     Now golden Autumn from her open lap
  Her fragrant bounties showers; the fields are shorn;
  Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer views
  The rising pyramids that grace his yard,
  And counts his large increase; his barns are stored,
  And groaning staddles bend beneath their load. 
  All now is free as air, and the gay pack
  In the rough bristly stubbles range unblamed;
  No widow’s tears o’erflow, no secret curse
  Swells in the farmer’s breast, which his pale lips
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  Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord awed: 
  But courteous now he levels every fence,
  Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud,
  Charmed with the rattling thunder of the field. 
  Oh bear me, some kind Power invisible! 
  To that extended lawn, where the gay court
  View the swift racers, stretching to the goal;
  Games more renowned, and a far nobler train,
  Than proud Elean fields could boast of old. 
  Oh! were a Theban lyre not wanting here,
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  And Pindar’s voice, to do their merit right! 
  Or to those spacious plains, where the strained eye
  In the wide prospect lost, beholds at last
  Sarum’s proud spire, that o’er the hills ascends,
  And pierces through the clouds.  Or to thy downs,
  Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed beagle climbs,
  With matchless speed, thy green aspiring brow,

  And leaves the lagging multitude behind. 
     Hail, gentle Dawn! mild blushing goddess, hail! 
  Rejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread
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  O’er half the skies, gems pave thy radiant way,
  And orient pearls from every shrub depend. 
  Farewell, Cleora; here deep sunk in down
  Slumber secure, with happy dreams amused,
  Till grateful steams shall tempt thee