AGRICULTURE.
The hero hath his fame,
'Tis blazon'd on his tomb,
But earth withholds her glad acclaim,
And frowns in silent gloom:
His footsteps on her breast
Were like the Simoom's blast,
And Death s dark ravages attest
Where'er the Conqueror past.
By him her harvests sank,
Her famish'd flocks were slain,
And from the fount where thousands drank
Came gushing blood like rain;
For him no requiem-sigh
From vale or grove shall swell,
But flowers exulting lift their eye,
Where the proud spoiler fell.
Look at yon peaceful bands
Who guide the glittering share,
The quiet labor of whose hands
Doth make Earth's bosom fair,
For them the rich perfume
From ripen'd fields doth flow,
They bid the desert rose to bloom,
The wild with plenty glow.
Ah! happier thus to prize
The humble, rural shade,
And like our Father in the skies
Blest Nature's work to aid,
