And disappoint your project. Love the hand Now comes July, and with his fervid noon The weary maid rakes feebly. The warm swain The faint steer, Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along The slow-encumber'd wain. The hedge-row now Delights, or the still shade of silent lane, Or cool impending arbour, there to read, Or talk and laugh, or meditate and sleep. There let me sit to see the low'ring storm Collect its dusky horrors, and advance To bellow sternly in the ear of night; To see the' Almighty electrician come, Making the clouds his chariot. Who can stand When he appears? The conscious creature flies And skulks away, afraid to see his God Charge and recharge his dreadful battery. For who so pure his lightning might not blast, And be the messenger of justice? Who Can stand expos'd, and to his Judge exclaim, My heart is cleansed, turn thy storm away?' Fear not, ye fair, who with the naughty world Have seldom mingled. Mark the rolling storm, And let me hear you tell, when morning comes, With what tremendous howl the furious blast Blew the large show'r in heavy cataract Against your window; how the keen, the quick, And vivid lightning quiver'd on your bed, And how the deep artillery of heaven Broke loose, and shook your coward habitation. And that which we deem virtue here below, The storm subsided, and the day begun, Who would not walk along the sandy way, To smell the shower's fragrance, see the sun Come not St. Swithin with a cloudy face, Ill-ominous; for old tradition says, If Swithin weep, a deluge will ensue, A forty days of rain. The swain believes And blesses sultry Swithin if he smiles, But curses if he frowns. So boding dames Teach the fray'd boy a thousand ugly signs, Which riper judgment cannot shake aside: And so the path of life is rough indeed, And the poor fool feels double smart, compell'd To trudge it barefoot on the naked flint. For what is judgment and the mind inform'd, Whom can he blame who shudders at the sight The page of time, and reads his lot amiss, |