108
VIII.
TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND,
(AN AGRICULTURALIST.)
Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.
Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his Lands,
And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.
Rare Master has it been thy lot to know;
Long hast Thou served a Man to reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high and low,
The toiling many and the resting few;
Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,
And industry of body and of mind;
And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
As Nature is;—too pure to be refined.
