THE Landscape's stretching view, that opens wide,

With dribbling brooks, and river's wider floods, And hills, and vales, and darksome lowering woods, With green of varied hues, and grasses pied;

The low brown cottage in the sheltered nook; The steeple, peeping just above the trees Whose dangling leaves keep rustling in the breeze; And thoughtful shepherd bending o'er his hook; And maidens stripped, haymaking too, appear; And Hodge a-whistling at his fallow plough; And herdsmen hallooing to intruding cow: All these, with hundreds more, far off or near, Approach my sight; and please to such excess, That language fails the pleasure to express.

John Clare.

A LAIR AT NOON.

THE hawthorn gently stopped the sun, beneath,
The ash above its quivering shadows spread,
And downy bents, that to the air did wreathe,
Bowed 'neath my pressure
in an easy
bed:
The water whirlèd round each stunted nook,
And sweet the splashings on the ear did swim,
Of fly-bit cattle gulching in the brook,

Nibbling the grasses on the fountain's brim:
The little minnows, driven from their retreat,
Still sought the shelving bank to shun the heat.

I fain had slept, but flies would buzz around; I fain had looked calmly on the scene,

But the sweet snug retreat my search had found Wakened the Muse to sing the woody screen.

John Clare.

A SUMMER RAMBLE.

71

THE Summer, the divinest Summer burns,
The skies are bright with azure and with gold;
The mavis and the nightingale, by turns,

Amid the woods a soft enchantment hold:
The flowering woods, with glory and delight,
Their tender leaves unto the air have spread;
The wanton air, amid their alleys bright,

Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance shed:
The nymphs within the silver fountains play,
The angels on the golden banks recline,
Wherein great Flora, in her bright array,

Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets divine:
Or, else, I gaze upon that beauteous face,
O Amoret! and think these sweets have place!
Lord Thurlow.

A SUMMER RAMBLE.

THE quiet August noon has come,

A slumberous silence fills the sky;
The fields are still, the woods are dumb,
In glassy sleep the waters lie.

And mark yon soft white clouds that rest
Above our vale, a moveless throng;

The cattle, on the mountain's breast,
Enjoy, the grateful shadow long.

Oh, how unlike those merry hours

In early June, when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout!

When in the grass sweet voices talk,
And strains of tiny music swell
From every moss-cup of the rock,
From every nameless blossom's bell.

But now a joy too deep for sound,
A peace no other season knows,
Hushes the heavens and wraps
The blessing of supreme repose.

Away! I will not be, to-day,

the ground,

The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air.

Beneath the open sky abroad,

Among the plants and breathing things,
The sinless, peaceful works of God,
I'll share the calm the season brings.

Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see
The gentle meanings of thy heart,
One day amid the woods with me,
From men and all their cares apart.

And where, upon the meadow's breast,
The shadow of the thicket lies,
The blue wild flowers thou gatherest

Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes.

A SUMMER RAMBLE.

Come, and when, mid the calm profound,
I turn, those gentle eyes to seek,
They, like the lovely landscape round,
Of innocence and peace shall speak.

Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade,
And on the silent valleys gaze,
Winding and widening, till they fade
In yon soft ring of summer haze.

The village trees their summits rear,
Still as its spire, and yonder flock
At rest in those calm fields appear

As chiselled from the lifeless rock.

One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks—
There the hushed winds their sabbath keep,
While a near hum from bees and brooks
Comes faintly, like the breath of sleep.

Well may the gazer deem that when,

Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the wrongs

of men, The good forsakes the scene of life;

Like this deep quiet that, awhile,
Lingers the lovely landscape o'er,
Shall be the peace whose holy smile
Welcomes him to a happier shore.

William Cullen Bryant.

73