HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME. COME, Sons of summer, by whose toil The harvest swains and wenches bound With upper stories-mutton, veal, Which freely drink to your lord's health, true Feed him ye must whose food fills you; HERRICK. THERE was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs At evening, when the earliest stars began Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. And they would shout Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals, Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received WORDSWORTH. |