Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervours; the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,- Their bases on the mountains-their white tops Shining in the far ether-fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays its coming. Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh come and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now, Among the nearer groves, chesnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes! Lo where the grassy meadow runs in waves! The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings Music of birds and rustling of young boughs, And sound of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath, a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook, Nod gaily to each other, glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet, and silver waters break Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
With what glory comes and goes the year!— The buds of spring,-those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times,―enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out; And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And from a beaker full of richest dyes Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beach, and maple yellow-leaved,— Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves; the purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,- A winter bird,-comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings; And merrily with oft-repeated stroke
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
O what a glory doth this world put on For him that with a fervent heart goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, aye, the yellow leaves Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.
The mountains are blue in the morning air, And the woods are sparkling with dewy light; The winds, as they wind through the hollows, bear The breath of the blossoms that wake by night. Wide o'er the bending meadows roll
The mists, like a lightly moving sea ; The sun is not risen-and over the whole There hovers a silent mystery.
The pure blue sky is in calm repose; The pillowy clouds are sleeping there; So stilly the brook in its covert flows, You would think its murmur a breath of air. The water that floats in the glassy pool, Half hid by the willows that line its brink, In its deep recess has a look so cool,
One would worship its nymph, as he bent to drink.
Pure and beautiful thoughts, at this early hour, Go off to the home of the bright and blessed; They steal on the heart with an unseen power; And its passionate throbbings are laid at rest: O! who would not catch, from the quiet sky And the mountains that soar in the hazy air, When his harbinger tells that the sun is nigh, The visions of bliss that are floating there.
Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair, Swimming in the pure quiet air!
Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow : Where, 'midst their labour, pause the reaper train As cool it comes along the grain.
Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee In thy calm way o'er land and sea : To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look On Earth as on an open book;
On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, And the long ways that seam her lands; And hear her humming cities, and the sound
Of waves that chafe their rocky bound. Aye-I would sail upon thy air-borne car To blooming regions distant far,
To where the sun of Andalusia shines
On his own olive groves and vines, Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky In smiles upon her ruins lie.
But I would woo the winds to let us rest
O'er Greece long fettered and opprest,
Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes From the old battle fields and tombs,
And risen, and drawn the sword, and, on the foe, Have dealt the swift and desperate blow,
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