To Summer

O thou who passest thro' our valleys in     Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat     That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,     Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft     Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld     With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.     Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard     Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car     Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs     Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on     Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy     Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:     Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.     Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:     Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:     Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:     We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,     Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,     Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.