Song The Seventh

Yon Alp, he lifts his snowy horn
To catch the virgin rose of morn.

Clouds in towering tumult loom:
Sunny onsets dash the gloom;
Bold burly March, he laughs to do it;
Yon showery drift, he whistles through it;
Breaks in wild glee the Rainbow's horns;
Hangs drops of glory on the points of thorns;
But, o'er yon sower on the slope,
Breathes blessing through his thin white dust of hope.

Breezy dapplings to and fro,
What a ferment o'er the meadow!
O'er the billowy corn they go,
Light and shadow, light and shadow.

Bearded leas embattled stand,
Embattled with the hosts of bread.
Famine has seen and fled.
The sower's hand,
It saves the land:
High honour to the sower's hand!