I bless thy balmy airs,
Thy buds and tender grass, And the music of thy breezy tones That by my lattice pass. Oh, lightly on my soul
Thy blessed influence fling, And breathe again upon my brow, Sweet spirit of the spring!
'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun Darts on the head direct his forceful rays. O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all, From pole to pole, is undistinguished blaze.
In vain the sight, dejected, to the ground Stoops for relief; thence hot-ascending steams And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root Of vegetation parched, the cleaving fields And slippery lawn an arid hue disclose, Blast fancy's bloom, and wither even the soul. Echo no more returns the cheerful sound Of sharpening scythe: the mower sinking heaps O'er him the humid hay, with flowers perfumed; And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard Through the dumb mead. Distressful nature pants. The very streams look languid from afar ;
Or, through the unsheltered glade, impatient, seem To hurl into the covert of the grove.
All-conquering heat, oh, intermit thy wrath, And on my throbbing temples potent thus Beam not so fierce! Incessant still you flow, And still another fervent flood succeeds, Pour'd on the head profuse. In vain I sigh, 'And restless turn, and look around for night: Night is far off; and hotter hours approach.
Thrice happy he, who, on the sunless side Of a romantic mountain, forest-crowned, Beneath the whole collected shade reclines; Or in the gelid caverns, woodbine wrought, And fresh bedew'd with ever-spouting streams,
Sits coolly calm; while all the world without, Unsatisfied and sick, tosses in noon- Emblem instructive of the virtuous man, Who keeps his temper'd mind serene and pure, And every pleasure aptly harmonized, Amid a jarring world with vice inflamed.
SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.
THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the dark-blue sky! In grateful silence, earth receives The general blessing; fresh and fair Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. The softened sunbeams pour around A fairy light, uncertain, pale; The wind flows cool: the scented ground Is breathing odours on the gale.
Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below awhile,
Then turn to bathe and revel there.
The sun breaks forth; from off the scene Its floating veil of mist is flung; And all the wilderness of green
With trembling drops of light is hung.
Now gaze on nature-yet the same— Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,
Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.
Hear the rich music of that voice,
Which sounds from all below, above;
She calls her children to rejoice,
And round them throws her arms of love.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well! The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well: The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well: The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
WHEN the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days, And Libra weighs in equal scales the year,
From heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook Of parting summer, a serener blue,
With golden light enlivened, wide invests The happy world.
Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether; whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn The gentle current: while, illumined wide, The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, And through their lucid veil his softened force Shed over the peaceful world. Then is the time, For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things; To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.
BY THOMAS MACKELLAR.
THESE days of balmy breathings say The spirit of the south Is winging hitherward her way, Sweets dropping from her mouth : Her presence field and forest fills, While sweetly sing the running rills.
The brilliant leaves adorn the trees,- Within whose cooling shade The aged men inhaled the breeze, And many an urchin played ;- The trees whose dying loveliness Is brighter than their summer dress.
The boughs are tenantless of birds; The squirrel's chirp is heard Where concerts of melodious words
The woods and orchards stirr'd; Light-hearted warblers! wise betimes, They've hied away to sunnier climes.
The sun, emitting modest rays, Hastes early to the west, And bursts into a golden blaze, Just as he dips his crest,
And bids our land a long good-bye And speeds to light the western sky.
As one beloved expiring lies, And lifts her eye a while To give love's token ere she dies, And smiles a last sweet smile, That e'er shall bide within the cell
Where memory's holiest treasures dwell,
Thus Summer, as she dies away, Looks on the earth again, And bids her shadows softly stray Amid the homes of men-
To bless them with her parting breath, And reconcile them to her death.
BEHOLD the western evening light! It melts in deepening gloom; So calmly Christians sink away Descending to the tomb.
The winds breathe low, the withering leaf Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath, When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed! 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud The sunset beam is cast!
'Tis like the memory left behind
When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night, The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light Its glory shall restore;
And eyelids that are seal'd in death Shall wake to close no more.
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