'Tis summer eve, a gentle hour;
The west is rich in sombre sheen;
And, 'mid the garden's leafy trees,
Springs up a cool, refreshing breeze,
And the pale stars are faintly seen.
The white owl, with its downy wings
And hooded head, goes slowly by;
The hawk-moth sits upon the flowers;
And through the silent evening hours
The little brooks make melody.
And, walking 'mid the folded blooms
At summer midnight, shalt thou feel
A softened heart, a will subdued,
A holy sense of gratitude,
An influence from the Source of Good,
Thy bitterest griefs to heal.
GET up, get up, for shame; the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn:
See how Aurora throws her fair,
Fresh-quilted colours through the air;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree;
Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
Nay, not so much as out of bed,
When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns; 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in;
When, as a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, Take no care
And sweet as Flora.
For jewels for your gown or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you;
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:
Come, and receive them, while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still,
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying; Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying!
Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park,
Made green and trimmed with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,
Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of whitethorn, neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street,
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done by staying,
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying!
There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up, and gone to bring in May:
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with whitethorn laden home,
Some have dispatched their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream;
And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth;
Many a green gown has been given ;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;
Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament;
Many a jest told of the key's betraying
This night, and locks picked; yet we're not a-Maying!
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time:
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty;
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;
So when or you, or I, are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight,
Lies drowned with us in endless night.
AUTUMN SONG.
AUTUMN gale! sweet autumn gale!
Sing with me a sober wail;
Summer loves the melting song;
Lightsome airs to spring belong;
Old December shouts with glee,
O'er wassail cup and revelry:
Them I note not; thee I call
To my sober festival.
Haste with sighs to woo the rose,
Blooming not till summer's close;
Seek her bower, but O! beware
Not to romp or frolic there!
Lest she lose her silken dress,
And her blushing loveliness;
Suck her fragrant breath, and bring
Odours on thy flutt'ring wing.
Hither, hither, autumn gale!
Turn thy flight, and lightly sail.
I see yon sweet bird's quiv'ring throat,
But scarcely hear his liquid note:
Turn thy flight, and to mine ear
Bring the music loud and clear.
Nearer-haste thee!-nearer still-
Now, go wander where you will.
Idle breeze!-that plaintive sigh
Tells me thou art lingering nigh.
Where the fruit hangs golden now,
Roughly blow, and bend the bough;
Or, to please my wayward will,
Shake the branch-'tis easier still-
And drop the fruit, that's ripe and sweet,
On the green grass at my feet.
Autumn gale!-away, away!
We will seek yon ruin gray;
Where old Time hath hung his pall
O'er roofless aisles and ivy'd wall.
Ceasing now the wail you love
O'er fading flower and leafless grove,
Lift that dusky pall, and show
The dim forgotten tales below.
Fancy lingers thereabout,
To help your pleasant story out.
Night is coming; flit away,
Till the dawn of cheerful day;
Braid your loose hair round your brow
With scarlet poppies, drooping low,
That the dewy flowers may weep
Over your eyelids as you sleep:
Fold your wing, and hang your head,
And sink into your leafy bed.
What! returning! restless breeze!
Not so near, sir, if you please.
Hence! away! thou specious foe!
All too like some friends I know;
Boon companions, warm and gay,
While the golden sunbeams stay;
Rude, and bitter cold, like thee,
In darkness and adversity.
THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.
HERE the rude clamour of the sportsman's joy, The gun fast-thundering, and the winded horn, Would tempt the muse to sing the rural game: How, in his mid-career, the spaniel struck, Stiff, by the tainted gale, with open nose, Out-stretch'd, and finely sensible, draws full, Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey; As in the sun the circling covey bask Their varied plumes, and watchful every way Through the rough stubble turn the secret eye. Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat Their idle wings, entangled more and more: Nor on the surges of the boundless air,
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