HESE tiny loiterers on the barley's beard,
And happy units of a numerous herd
Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings ;
Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings;
How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!
No kin they bear to labour's drudgery,
Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose,
And where they fly for dinner no one knows ;
The dew-drop feeds them not; they love the shine
Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine.
All day they're playing in their Sunday dress-
When night reposes they can do no less;
Then to the heathbell's purple hood they fly,
And, like to princes in their slumbers, lie
Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all
On silken beds in roomy, painted hall.
So merrily they spend their summer day,
Or in the corn-fields, or in new-mown hay.
One almost fancies that such happy things,
With coloured hoods and richly-burnished wings,
Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade
Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid;
Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still,
Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.
ISHED morning's come; and now upon the plains.
And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,
The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,
And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day.
The lusty swain comes, with his well-filled scrip
Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,
With much content and appetite he eats,--
To follow in the field his daily toil,
And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits.
The beasts that under the warm hedges slept,
And weathered out the cold bleak night, are up;
And looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise
Their voice, and bid their fellow brutes good-morrow.
The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees,
Assemble all in choirs; and with their notes
Salute and welcome up the rising sun.
ROUND the adjoining brook, that purls along The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock, Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool, Now starting to a sudden stream, and now Gently diffused into a limpid plain; A various group the herds and flocks compose, Rural confusion! On the grassy bank Some ruminating lie; while others stand. Half in the flood, and often bending sip
The circling surface. In the middle droops
The strong laborious ox, of honest front,
Which incomposed he shakes; and from his sides
The troublous insects lashes with his tail,
Returning still. Amid his subjects safe,
Slumbers the monarch-swain; his careless arm
Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustained;
Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands filled;
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.
Light fly his slumbers, if perchance a flight
Of angry gad-flies fasten on the herd,
That startling scatters from the shallow brook,
In search of lavish stream. Tossing the foam,
They scorn the keeper's voice, and scour the plain,
Through all the bright severity of noon;
While, from their labouring breasts, a hollow moan
Proceeding, runs low-bellowing round the hills.
Oft in this season too the horse, provok'd, While his big sinews full of spirits swell,
Trembling with vigour, in the heat of blood,
Springs the high fence; and, o'er the field effus'd,
Darts on the gloomy flood, with stedfast eye,
And heart estranged to fear his nervous chest,
Luxuriant, and erect, (the seat of strength!)
Bears down the' opposing stream: quenchless his thirst;
He takes the river at redoubled draughts;
And with wide nostrils, snorting, skims the wave.
HE welcome guest of settled spring,
The Swallow, too, is come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hail'd her as she pass'd.
Come, summer visitant, attach
To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch
Low twittering underneath the thatch,
At the green dawn of day.
APPY the man, from busy cares withdrawn,
Who seeks the sweets of rural ease,
Where every spot has power to please,
The rugged mountain and the verdant lawn.
He shuns the dreadful din of war,
The dreadful trumpet's bray;
Though cannons thunder from afar,
He hears without dismay.
Nor when the threatening billows rise,
And blackening clouds appear,
Does he with horror view the skies,
And Neptune's fury fear.
No golden dreams of fame or wealth
Disturb his humbler views,
With peace of mind and blooming health
His labour he pursues.
Contented with his rustic plains,
Luxurious revels he disdains.
When now the rosy-bosomed morn
Tinges the east with gilded ray,
And, on her silent courses borne,
Serenely ushers in the day,
The lonely voice of Chanticleer
Calls him from his humble bed;
Unfolded soon his fleecy care appear,
And, bleating, stray along the distant mead.
But when the beauteous Autumn rears,
With various fruitage crowned, her head,
When waves the golden plain with ripened ears,
And clustered grapes their purple fragrance shed,
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