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OLIVE BUDS.
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.
