SUMMER MORNING.

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She seems the first that does for pardon sue,
As though the guilty stain which lurks below
Had touched the flowers that drooped above her brow;
When she all night slept by the daisies' side;
And now she soars where purity doth flow,
Where new-born light is with no sin allied,

And, pointing with her wings, heavenward our thoughts would guide.

VI.

In belted gold the bees, with "merry march," Through flowery towns go sounding on their way: They pass the red-streaked woodbine's sun-stained arch, And onward glide through streets of sheeted May, Nor till they reach the summer-roses stay, Where maiden-buds are wrapt in dewy dreams, Drowsy through breathing back the new-mown hay, That rolls its fragrance o'er the fringed streamsMirrors in which the Sun now decks his quivering beams.

VII.

Uprise the lambs, fresh from their flowery slumber (The daisies they pressed down rise from the sod);He guardeth them who every star doth number, Who called His Son a lamb-" the Lamb of God;" And for His sake withdrew the uplifted rod, Bidding each cloud turn to a silvery fleece, The imaged flock for which our Shepherd trod The paths of sorrow, that we might find peace :Those emblems of His love will wave till time shall

VIII.

On the far sky leans the old ruined mill,
Through its rent sails the broken sunbeams glow,
Gilding the trees that belt the lower hill,
And the old thorns which on its summit grow.
Only the reedy marsh that sleeps below,
With its dwarf bushes, is concealed from view;
And now a struggling thorn its head doth show,
Another half shakes off the smoky blue,

Just where the dusty gold streams through the heavy dew:

IX.

And there the hidden river lingering dreams, You scarce can see the banks which round it lie; That withered trunk, a tree or shepherd seems, Just as the light or fancy strikes the eye. Even the very sheep, which graze hard by, So blend their fleeces with the misty haze, They look like clouds shook from the unsunned sky, Ere morning o'er the eastern hills did blaze :The vision fades as they move farther on to graze.

A checkered light streams in between the leaves, Which on the greensward twinkle in the sun; The deep-voiced thrush his speckled bosom heaves, And like a silver stream his song doth run Down the low vale, edgèd with fir-trees dun. A little bird now hops beside the brook, "Peaking" about like an affrighted nun; And ever as she drinks doth upward look, Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloistered nook.

SUMMER MORNING.

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ΧΙ.

What varied colors o'er the landscape play!
The very clouds seem at their ease to lean,
And the whole earth to keep glad holiday.
The lowliest bush that by the waste is seen,
Hath changed its dusky for a golden green,
In honor of this lovely Summer Morn:
The rutted roads did never seem so clean;
There is no dust upon the wayside thorn,
For every bud looks out as if but newly born.

XII.

A cottage girl trips by with side-long look,
Steadying the little basket on her head;
And where a plank bridges the narrow brook
She stops to see her fair form shadowèd.
The stream reflects her cloak of russet red;
Below she sees the trees and deep-blue sky,
The flowers which downward look in that clear bed,
The very birds which o'er its brightness fly:

She parts her loose brown hair, then wondering passes by.

XIII.

Now other forms move o'er the footpaths brown In twos and threes; for it is Market day : Beyond those hills stretches a little town, And thitherward the rustics bend their way, Crossing the scene in blue, and red, and gray; Now by green hedge-rows, now by oak-trees old, As they by stile or thatched cottage stray. Peep through the rounded hand, and you'll behold Such gems as Morland drew, in frames of sunny gold.

XIV.

A laden ass, a maid with wicker maun', A shepherd lad driving his lambs to sell, Gaudy-dressed girls move in the rosy dawn, Women whose cloaks become the landscape well, Farmers whose thoughts on crops and prizes dwell; An old man with his cow and calf draws near. Anon you hear the village carrier's bell; Then does his gray old tilted cart appear, Moving so slow, you think he never will get there.

XV.

They come from still green nooks, woods old and hoary, The silent work of many a summer night, Ere those tall trees attained their giant glory, Or their dark tops did tower that cloudy height: They come from spots which the gray hawthorns light, Where stream-kissed willows make a silver shiver. For years their steps have worn those footpaths bright Which wind along the fields and by the river, That makes a murmuring sound, a "ribble-bibble" ever.

XVI.

A troop of soldiers pass with stately pace-
Their early music wakes the village street:
Through yon white blinds peeps many a lovely face,
Smiling-perchance unconsciously how sweet!
One does the carpet press with blue-veined feet,
Not thinking how her fair neck she exposes,
But with white foot timing the drum's deep beat;
And, when again she on her pillow dozes,

Dreams how she'll dance that tune 'mong Summer's

SUMMER MORNING.

37

XVII.

So let her dream, even as beauty should!
Let the white plumes athwart her slumbers sway!
Why should I steep their swaling snow in blood,
Or bid her think of battle's grim array?
Truth will too soon her blinding star display,
And like a fearful comet meet her eyes.
And yet how n ceful they pass on their way!
How grand the sight, as up the hill they rise!-
I will not think of cities reddening in the skies.

XVIII.

How sweet those rural sounds float by the hill !
The grasshopper's shrill chirp rings o'er the ground,
The jingling sheep-bells are but seldom still,
The clapping gate closes with hollow bound,
There's music in the church-clock's measured sound.
The ring-dove's song, how breeze-like comes and goes,
Now here, now there, it seems to wander round:
The red cow's voice along the upland flows;

His bass the brindled bull from the far meadow lows.

XIX.

"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" ah! well I know thy note, Those summer-sounds the backward years do bring, Like Memory's locked-up bark once more afloat: They carry me away to life's glad spring, To home, with all its old boughs rustleing. 'Tis a sweet sound! but now I feel not glad; I miss the voices which were wont to sing, When on the hills I roamed a happy lad. "Cuckoo!" it is the grave-not thou-that makes me sad.