Summer Images

Now swarthy summer, by rude health embrowned,     Precedence takes of rosy fingered spring;     And laughing joy, with wild flowers pranked and crowned,     A wild and giddy thing,     And health robust, from every care unbound,     Come on the zephyr's wing,     And cheer the toiling clown.     Happy as holiday-enjoying face,     Loud tongued, and "merry as a marriage bell,"     Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place;     And where the troubled dwell,     Thy witching smiles wean them of half their cares;     And from thy sunny spell,     They greet joy unawares.     Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude,     And mantle laced with gems of garish light,     Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude,     And in the world's despite,     Share the rude mirth that thy own heart beguiles:     If haply so I might     Win pleasure from thy smiles,     Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers,     In nightly revels or in city streets;     But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears,     That one at leisure meets     In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn,     Or fields, where bee-fly greets     The ears with mellow horn.     The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe,     Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks;     There bees go courting every flower that's ripe,     On baulks and sunny banks;     And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon,     Attempts to give God thanks     In no discordant tune.     There speckled thrush, by self-delight embued,     There sings unto himself for joy's amends,     And drinks the honey dew of solitude.     There happiness attends     With inbred joy until the heart oerflow,     Of which the world's rude friends,     Nought heeding, nothing know.     There the gay river, laughing as it goes,     Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides,     And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows     What pleasure there abides,     To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free:     Spots solitude provides     To muse, and happy be.     There ruminating neath some pleasant bush,     On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease,     Where I can pillow on the yielding rush;     And, acting as I please,     Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie,     Mark the wind-shaken trees,     And cloud-betravelled sky.     And think me how some barter joy for care,     And waste life's summer-health in riot rude,     Of nature, nor of nature's sweets aware;     Where passions vain and rude     By calm reflection, softened are and still;     And the heart's better mood     Feels sick of doing ill.     There I can live, and at my leisure seek     Joys far from cold restraints--not fearing pride--     Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek     Rude health, so long denied.     Here poor integrity can sit at ease,     And list self-satisfied     The song of honey-bees;     And green lane traverse heedless where it goes     Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies     Rude battered finger post, that stooping shows     Where the snug mystery lies;     And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,     Clears up the short surprise,     And shows a peeping town.     I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn     Of beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours;     The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn,     Agape for honey showers;     And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew     Of morning's early hours,     Like gold yminted new;     And mark by rustic bridge, oer shallow stream,     Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled,     Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream;     Who now, in gestures wild,     Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall,     Feeling self-gratified,     Nor fearing human thrall:     Then thread the sunny valley laced with streams,     Or forests rude, and the oershadowed brims     Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams,     And streaks his listless limbs;     Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long,     Where joy's wild impulse swims     In one continued song.     I love at early morn, from new mown swath,     To see the startled frog his route pursue;     To mark while, leaping oer the dripping path,     His bright sides scatter dew,     The early lark that, from its bustle flies,     To hail his matin new;     And watch him to the skies:     To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent,     The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn,     With earnest heed, and tremulous intent,     Frail brother of the morn,     That from the tiny bents and misted leaves     Withdraws his timid horn,     And fearful vision weaves:     Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top,     Wont to be first unsealing morning's eye,     Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop     Of honey on his thigh;     To see him seek morn's airy couch to sing,     Until the golden sky     Bepaint his russet wing:     And sawning boy by tanning corn espy,     With clapping noise to startle birds away,     And hear him bawl to every passer by     To know the hour of day;     And see the uncradled breeze, refreshed and strong,     With waking blossoms play,     And breathe eolian song.     I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,     And not the less when sudden drops of rain     Moisten my pallid cheek from ebon cloud,     Threatening soft showers again,     That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds,     Summer's sweet breath unchain,     And wake harmonious sounds.     Rich music breathes in summer's every sound;     And in her harmony of varied greens,     Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around     Much beauty intervenes,     Filling with harmony the ear and eye;     While oer the mingling scenes     Far spreads the laughing sky.     And wind-enamoured aspin--mark the leaves     Turn up their silver lining to the sun,     And list! the brustling noise, that oft deceives,     And makes the sheep-boy run;     The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers,     He thinks the rain begun,     And hastes to sheltering bowers.     But now the evening curdles dank and grey,     Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed;     And moping owls, to close the lids of day,     On drowsy wing proceed;     While chickering crickets, tremulous and long,     Light's farewell inly heed,     And give it parting song.     The pranking bat its nighty circlet makes;     The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew     Oer meadows dew-besprent; and beetle wakes     Enquiries ever new,     Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain,     As wanting to pursue     His homeward path again.     Hark to the melody of distant bells     That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds     By fitful starts, then musically swells     Oer the dun stilly grounds;     While on the meadow bridge the pausing boy     Listens the mellow sounds,     And hums in vacant joy.     Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round     His evening faggot, and with every stride     His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound.     Till silly sheep beside     His path start tremulous, and once again     Look back dissatisfied,     Then scour the dewy plain.     How sweet the soothing calm that smoothly stills     Oer the heart's every sense its opiate dews,     In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills!     That softens and subdues,     With gentle quiet's bland and sober train,     Which dreamy eve renews     In many a mellow strain.     I love to walk the fields, they are to me     A legacy no evil can destroy;     They, like a spell, set every rapture free     That cheered me when a boy.     Play--pastime--all time's blotting pen concealed,     Comes like a new-born joy,     To greet me in the field.     For nature's objects ever harmonize     With emulous taste, that vulgar deed annoys;     It loves in quiet moods to sympathize,     And meet vibrating joys     Oer nature's pleasant things; nor will it deem     Pastime the muse employs     A vain obtrusive theme.