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Behold yon peaceful bands, Who guide the glittering share, The quiet labour of whose hands Doth make Earth's bosom fair, From them the rich perfume From ripen'd fields doth flow They bid the desert-rose to bloom, The waste with plenty glow.

Ah, happier thus to prize The humble rural shade, And like our Father in the skies, Blest nature's work to aid, Than famine and despair Among mankind to spread, And earth, our mothers' curse to bear, Down to the silent dead.