  NOW swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned, Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring; And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d, 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 charms 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 wealth 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 ear with mellow horn. The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe, Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks; The 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. The 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 o’erflow, 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. There 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. When passions vain intrude, These, by calm musings, 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; The green lane now I traverse, where it goes Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies Rude batter’d finger post, that stooping shows Where the snug mystery lies; And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown, Cheers 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 minted new. And mark by rustic bridge, o’er 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. Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams, Or forests rude, and the o’ershadow’d brims Of simple pond, where idle shepherd dreams, Stretching 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 o’er 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 bent’s dew-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. Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy, With clapping noise to startle birds away, And hear hi |
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