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Song on Spring Morn.
Spring and Summer. GRACEFULLY, gleefully, trippingly go O'er the bright mountains the fawn and the roe; Joyfully, tunefully, lovingly sing All the sweet birds in the ear of the spring. Hopefully, carefully, joyfully she Scatters her smiles o'er the mountains and lea. Summer descends like a Bridegroom, whose glow Crimsons the blossoms the spring bade to blow; Spring is his bride, and she sits at his feet, Veild in his glory, but ruling him sweet. HARRIS.
In a thin silken cassock colour'd greene,
And on his head a girlond well beseene
The sweat did drop; and in his hand he bore,
Had hunted late the Libbard or the Bore, And now would bathe his limbs with labor heated sore.
Summer-Early Morning. 'Tis morn, but yet the full and cloudless moon
Pours from her starry urn a chasten'd light; 'Tis but a little space beyond the noon
The still, delicious noon of summer's night;
Forth from my home I take an early flight, Down the lone vale pursue my devious way,
Bound o'er the meadows with a keen delight, Brush from the forest leaves the dewy spray, And scale the toilsome steep, to watch the kindling day, The lark is up disdainful of the earth,
Exulting in his airy realm on high; His song, profuse in melody and mirth, Makes vocal all the region of the sky;
The moor-cock, startled with a sudden cry, Springs from beneath my feet; and, as I pass,
The sheep regard me with an earnest eye,
Blushes and burns athwart the east ;-behold,
Back from his beaming brow the mists are rollid,
Rocks, woods, and gl'ens their shadowy depths unfold ; The trembling dews grow brighter on the thorn, A.nd Nature smiles as fresh as if but newly born. God of the boundless universe ! I come
To hold communion with myself and Thee ! And though excess of beauty makes me dumb,
My thoughts are eloquent with all I see;
My foot is on the mountains-I am free,
My dreams are sunny as yon pleasant lea,
To wean the heart from selfishness and care ! Where the vast prospect, bright, distinct, and clear,
Looks up in silence through the stainless air:
The moorlands are behind me, bleak and bare,
Beneath me lie the vales, calm, rich, and fair,
Summer Day. It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervours; the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heavenTheir bases on the mountains their white tops Shining in the far ether-fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays its coming. Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ? Oh come and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in the caves He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes ! Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves ! The deep distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumber'd sounds And universal motion. He is come, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings Music of birds and rustling of young boughs, And sound of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring on his breath: a thousand flowers, By the road-side and borders of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Summer Noor. The mid-day hour of twelve the clock counts o'er,
A sultry stillness lulls the air asleep; The very buzz of flies is heard no more,
Nor faintest wrinkles o'er the waters creep. Like one large sheet of glass the waters shine,
Reflecting on their face the hot sunbeam; The very fish their sportive play decline,
Seeking the willow-shadows 'side the stream. And, where the hawthorn branches o'er the pool,
The little bird, forsaking song and nest, Flutters on dripping twigs his limbs to cool,
And splashes in the stream his burning breast, Oh, free from thunder, for a sudden shower, To cherish nature in this noon-day hour!
How sweet at Summer's Noon to sit and Muse. How sweet, at summer's noon, to sit and muse Beneath the shadow of some ancient elm ! While at my feet the mazy streamlet flows In tuneful lapse, laving the flowers that bend To kiss its tide; while sport the finny throng On the smooth surface of the crystal depths In silvery circlets, or in shallows leap, That sparkle to the sunbeam's trembling glare. Around the tiny jets, where humid bells Break as they form, the water-spiders weave, Brisk on the eddying pools, their ceaseless dance. The wild-bee winds her horn, lost in the cups Of honey'd flowers, or sweeps with ample curve; While o'er the summer's lap is heard the hum Of countless insects sporting on the wing, Inviting sleep. And from the leafy woods One varying song of bursting joy ascends.
All chequer'd was the sky,
Veild heaven's most glorious eye.
That leisurely it blew,
That closely by it grew.
Look'd as they most desired,
Most curiously was tyred.
Might now be heard at will ;
Else every thing was still.
Such sov'reignty assumes,
The Gladness of Nature. Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When our mother, Nature, laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
Aud gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows at play on the bright green vale ; And here they stretch to the frolic chage,
And there they roll on the easy gale.