Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft ; Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves western wind;
His inossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, — his notes are And from the crowded fold, in order, drives voiil of art ;
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep
JAMES THOMSON. founts of the heart.
SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.
Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought
crazed wight like me, To siell again these summer flowers beneath this
suminer tree ! To suck once more in every breath their little
Up the dale and down the bourne,
O'er the meadow swist we lly;
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's
bright summer day, Then, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reck
less, truant boy Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a
inighty heart of joy ! I I'm sadder now,
- I lave had cause ; but 0, I'm proud to think That cach pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet
delight to drink ; Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the
calm, unclouded sky, Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the
days gone by. When summer's loveliness and light fall round
me dark and cold, I'll bear indeell life's heaviest curse,
a heart that hath waxed old !
Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolie things we say,
While aside her check we're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.
Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh ;
Then unto our rosy pillows
On our weary wings we hie.
Sort is the doubtful empire of the night;
observant of approaching day,
The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east,
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow,
And, from before the lustre of her face,
White break the clouds away.
With quickened
steľ,
Brown night retires. Young day pours
in apace,
opens all the lawny prospect wide.
The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top,
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.
Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents
shine ;
And from the bladed field the fearful hare
Limps, awkward ; while along the forest glade
The wild deer trip, and often twning gaze
At carly passenger. Music awakes,
The native voice of undissembled joy ;
And thick around the woodland hymns arise.
How beautiful is the rain !
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain !
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs !
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout !
Across the window-pane
It pours and pours ;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain !
Walking the fenceless fields of air ;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion ;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers underground ;
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain !
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand ;
Listing the yoke-encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Who has not dreamed a world of bliss
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couched by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days,
While all around them seemed to be
Just as in joyous infaney?
Who has not loved at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lulled in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude ?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You park a sultry glimmering ;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapped in a slumber long anı deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sherp
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaning of the sentiered broon.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
|