An Augustan Pastoral Poem

Profuse apologies for the minor errors of spelling in my last two entries. Some of those who have taken the trouble to read my blog have advised that I shorten the length of my posts. An absolutely valid suggestion, I should think. But brevity has never been one of my virtues; my writing rambles, meanders and swells like a river in its lower course. I find myself unable to offer any apologies on that count. We live in a world where leisure and slow-pacedness are much frowned upon. So it is only to be expected that one would feel the acute necessity of taking a quick look at something and then hurrying on to something else. There is no dearth of choice. It is true I have laid out my writings as one variety of food item in a huge platter of exotic delicacies to be consumed by a selective but busy population of internet browsers. Therefore, I have no legitimate right to complain. However unique and tasty the preparation might be, it has to catch the eye of hungry monsters who do not know better. I am not so unthinking as to call my well-wishers 'hungry monsters'. By 'hungry monsters' I mean my prospective readers. A writer who I rate very highly has said, "I am a personal writer. I wouldn't like a big audience. I write because I want to write and I couldn't care a damn what other people think." I share his sentiment completely.

In any case, I would like to share a poem with you. Since living in an industrialized, technologically-advanced and urbanized world has become a fait accompli with many of us, we are bound to miss those simple pleasures of life that come only from Man's rootedness with Earth and Nature. "A Harvest Scene," an Augustan pastoral poem by William Pattison, highlights this strong connection between Man and Nature, and, by extension, between Man and Religion and the concepts of community-feeling, prosperity and happiness. It should be noted that the poem was composed in 1728, nearly 3 decades before the Industrial Revolution made its appearance in the West. Here it goes:

Behold ---
The Green Fields Yellowing into Corny Gold!
White o'er their Ranks, an Old Man half appears,
How hale he Looks, tho' hoar'd with seventy Years;
His Prospect mounts, slow-pac'd, he strives to climb,
And seems some antient Monument of Time;
Propt o'er his Staff the reverend Father stands,
And views Heaven's Blessings with up-lifted Hands;
Gleeful in Heart computes the Year's Increase,
And portions out, in Thought, his homely Race,
His homely Race before, his Hopes improve,
And labour in Obedience for his Love;
Sweepy they Cut, then Bind the Sheafy-Grain,
And bend beneath the Burthen of the Plain;
His chearful Eyes, with silent Praises crown
Their Toils, and Smile at Vigour once his own;
Till the Mid-Sun to second Nature's Call,
Noon-marks the distant Steeple's Ivy'd Wall,

Thence warn'd, he waves his Arms, with giddy Haste,

The circling Summons to a cool Repaste.

The poem appears in The Penguin Book of English Pastoral Verse, edited by John Barrell and John Bull (Allen Lane: London, 1974. 290-91.).