O Harcourt, Whom th' ingenuous Love of Arts Has carry'd from Thy native Soil, beyond Th' eternal Alpine Snows, and now detains In Italy's waste Realms, how long must we Lament Thy Absence? Whilst in sweet Sojourn Thou view'st the Reliques of old Rome; or what, Unrival'd Authors by their Presence, made For ever venerable, rural Seats, Tibur, and Tusculum, or Virgil's Urn Green with immortal Bays, which haply Thou, Respecting his great Name, dost now approach With bended Knee, and strow with purple Flow'rs; Unmindful of Thy Friends, that ill can brook This long Delay. At length, Dear Youth, return, Of Wit, and Judgement ripe in blooming Years, And Britain's Isle with Latian Knowledge grace. Return, and let Thy Father's Worth excite Thirst of Preeminence; see! how the Cause Of Widows, and of Orphans He asserts With winning Rhetoric, and well argu'd Law! Mark well His Footsteps, and, like Him, deserve Thy Prince's Favour, and Thy Country's Love. Mean while (altho' the Massic Grape delights Pregnant of racy Juice, and Formian Hills Temper Thy Cups, yet) wilt not Thou reject Thy native Liquors: Lo! for Thee my Mill Now grinds choice Apples, and the British Vats O'erflow with generous Cyder; far remote Accept this Labour, nor despise the Muse, That, passing Lands, and Seas, on Thee attends. Thus far of Trees: The pleasing Task remains, To sing of Wines, and Autumn's blest Increase. Th' Effects of Art are shewn, yet what avails 'Gainst Heav'n? Oft, notwithstanding all thy Care To help thy Plants, when the small Fruit'ry seems Exempt from Ills, an oriental Blast Disastrous flies, soon as the Hind, fatigu'd, Unyokes his Team; the tender Freight, unskill'd To bear the hot Disease, distemper'd pines In the Year's Prime, the deadly Plague annoys The wide Inclosure; think not vainly now To treat thy Neighbours with mellifluous Cups, Thus disappointed: If the former Years Exhibit no Supplies, alas! thou must, With tastless Water wash thy droughty Throat. A thousand Accidents the Farmer's Hopes Subvert, or checque; uncertain all his Toil, 'Till lusty Autumn's luke-warm Days, allay'd With gentle Colds, insensibly confirm His ripening Labours: Autumn to the Fruits Earth's various Lap produces, Vigour gives Equal, intenerating milky Grain, Berries, and Sky-dy'd Plums, and what in Coat Rough, or soft Rind, or bearded Husk, or Shell; Fat Olives, and Pistacio's fragrant Nut, And the Pine's tastful Apple: Autumn paints Ausonian Hills with Grapes, whilst English Plains Blush with pomaceous Harvests, breathing Sweets. O let me now, when the kind early Dew Unlocks th' embosom'd Odors, walk among The well rang'd Files of Trees, whose full-ag'd Store Diffuse Ambrosial Steams, than Myrrh, or Nard More grateful, or perfuming flow'ry Beane! Soft whisp'ring Airs, and the Larks mattin Song Then woo to musing, and becalm the Mind Perplex'd with irksome Thoughts. Thrice happy time, Best Portion of the various Year, in which Nature rejoyceth, smiling on her Works Lovely, to full Perfection wrought! but ah, Short are our Joys, and neighb'ring Griefs disturb Our pleasant Hours. Inclement Winter dwells Contiguous; forthwith frosty Blasts deface The blithsome Year: Trees of their shrivel'd Fruits Are widow'd, dreery Storms o'er all prevail. Now, now's the time; e'er hasty Suns forbid To work, disburthen thou thy sapless Wood Of its rich Progeny; the turgid Fruit Abounds with mellow Liquor; now exhort Thy Hinds to exercise the pointed Steel On the hard Rock, and give a wheely Form To the expected Grinder: Now prepare Materials for thy Mill, a sturdy Post Cylindric, to support the Grinder's Weight Excessive, and a flexile Sallow' entrench'd, Rounding, capacious of the juicy Hord. Nor must thou not be mindful of thy Press Long e'er the Vintage; but with timely Care Shave the Goat's shaggy Beard, least thou too late, In vain should'st seek a Strainer, to dispart The husky, terrene Dregs, from purer Must. Be cautious next a proper Steed to find, Whose Prime is past; the vigorous Horse disdains Such servile Labours, or, if forc'd, forgets His past Atchievements, and victorious Palms. Blind Bayard rather, worn with Work, and Years, Shall roll th' unweildy Stone; with sober Pace He'll tread the circling Path 'till dewy Eve, From early Day-spring, pleas'd to find his Age Declining, not unuseful to his Lord. Some, when the Press, by utmost Vigour screw'd, Has drain'd the pulpous Mass, regale their Swine With the dry Refuse; thou, more wise shal