To turn the swarth, the quiv'ring load to rear,
Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear.

Summer's light garb itself now cumbrous grown,
Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down;
Where oft the mastiff skulks with half-shut eye,
And rouses at the stranger passing by;

Whilst unrestrain'd the social converse flows,
And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows,
And rival wits with more than rustic grace
Confess the presence of a pretty face.

For, lo encircled there, the lovely Maid,
In youth's own bloom and native smiles array'd;
Her hat awry, divested of her gown,

Her creaking stays of leather, stout and brown ;
Invidious barrier! why art thou so high,

When the slight covering of her neck slips by,
There half revealing to the eager sight
Her full, ripe bosom, exquisitely white?
In many a local tale of harmless mirth,
And many a jest of momentary birth,

She bears a part, and, as she stops to speak,
Strokes back the ringlets from her glowing cheek.
Now noon gone by, and four declining hours,
The weary limbs relax their boasted pow'rs;
Thirst rages strong, the fainting spirits fail,
And ask the sov'reign cordial, home-brew'd ale:
Beneath some shelt'ring heap of yellow corn
Rests the hoop'd keg, and friendly cooling horn,
That mocks alike the goblet's brittle frame,
Its costlier potions, and its nobler name.
To Mary first the brimming draught is given,
By toil made welcome as the dews of heaven,
And never lip that press'd its homely edge
Had kinder blessings or a heartier pledge.

BLOOMFIELD.

SUMMER.

FT when thy season, sweetest queen,
Has drest the groves in livery green;
When in each fair and fertile field
Beauty begins her bower to build;

While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,

Puts her matron-mantle on,

And mists in spreading steams convey

More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay.

舍

There through the dusk but dimly seen,

Sweet evening objects intervene :

His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,
Beneath her elm the milkmaid chants.
The woodman speeding home, awhile
Rests him at a shady stile.

Nor wants there fragrance to dispense
Refreshment o'er my soothèd sense;
Nor tangled woodbine's balmy bloom,
Nor grass besprent to breathe perfume:
Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet:
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote,
Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cot;

Rustle the breezes lightly borne

O'er deep embattled ears of corn:

Round ancient elm, with humming noise,

Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.
Meantime, a thousand dyes invest
The ruby chambers of the west!
That all aslant the village tower
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with the level-streaming rays,
Far seen its archèd windows blaze:
And the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet tints, and gleams of light:
So that the gay scene by degrees
Bathes my blithe heart in ecstasies;
And Fancy to my ravish'd sight
Portrays her kindred visions bright.
At length the parting light subdues
My soften'd soul to calmer views,
And fainter shapes of pensive joy,
As twilight dawns, my mind employ,
Till from the path I fondly stray
In musings lapt, nor heed the way;
Wandering through the landscape still,
Till Melancholy has her fill;

And on each moss-wove border damp,
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.

WARTON.

JULY.

OUD is the Summer's busy song;

The smallest breeze can find a tongue,

While insects of each tiny size

Grow teasing with their melodies,

Till noon burns with its blistering breath.

Around, and day dies still as death.

The busy noise of man and brute

Is on a sudden lost and mute;
Even the brook that leaps along
Seems weary of its bubbling song,
And so soft its waters creep,

Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep;
The cricket on its bank is dumb,
The very flies forget to hum;
And, save the wagon rocking round,
The landscape sleeps without a sound.
The breeze is stopp'd, the lazy bough
Hath not a leaf that danceth now;
The taller grass upon the hill,

And spider's threads, are standing still;

The feathers dropp'd from moor-hen's wing,
Which to the water's surface cling,

Are steadfast, and as heavy seem

As stones beneath them in the stream;
Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs
Unruffled keep their seedy crowns;
And in the oven-heated air

Not one light thing is floating there,
Save that to the earnest eye

The restless heat seems twittering by.
Noon swoons beneath the heat it made,
And flowers e'en within the shade,
Until the sun slopes in the west
Like weary traveller, glad to rest
On pillow'd clouds of many hues;
Then Nature's voice its joy renews,
And chequer'd field and grassy plain
Hum with their summer songs again,
A requiem to the day's decline,
Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine,
As welcome to day's feeble powers
As falling dews to thirsty flowers.