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Poem	O thou that swing'st upon the waving ear Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious tear Dropped thee from heav'n, where now th' art reared, The joys of earth and air are thine entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; And, when the poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then, Sport'st in the gilt plats of his beams, And all these merry days mak'st merry men, Thyself, and melancholy streams. But ah the sickle!—golden ears are cropped; Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night; Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have topped, And what schythes spared, winds shave off quite. Poor verdant fool! and now green ice!—thy joys, Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass, Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and poise Their floods with an o'erflowing glass. Thou best of men and friends! we will create A genuine summer in each other's breast; And spite of this cold time and frozen fate, Thaw us a warm seat to our rest. Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally As vestal flames; the North-wind, he Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve, and fly This Etna in epitome. Dropping December shall come weeping in, Bewail th' usurping of his reign; But when in show'rs of old Greek we begin, Shall cry he hath his crown again! Night as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip From the light casements where we play, And the dark hag from her black mantle strip, And stick there everlasting day. Thus richer than untempted kings are we, That asking nothing, nothing need: Though lord of all that seas embrace, yet he That wants himself is poor indeed.
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