136 
The fields so lately clothed are bare, 
The reaper’s arm hath toiled there ; 
Loud shouts “ throughout the welkin ring,” 
As glad the last rich load they bring ; 
Homeward the sunburnt labourers corne, 
Witli joyous cry of “Harvest Home ! ” 
Trace we the path? — It first was trod 
When late the plough upturned the sod : 
. Then swerving footsteps needs must stray, 
Marking an ever-winding way, 
And, failing in a line direct, 
Beauty unconsciously effect,— 
See here, although the field is bare, 
Fringing the path or scattered near, 
A few neglected ears we find, 
Round which Convolvulus hath twined. 
Though scorned by ail the world besides, 
Still fond and true she with them bides. 
’Twere ill to pass such lesson by, 
Leaving the monitor to die 
Ere yet the artist’s ready will 
Had sketched her, though with feeble skill. 
Well may such faithfulness be found 
In friendship's wreath securely bound ! 
