« PredošláPokračovať »
THE COMING SUMMER.
She comes ! she comes ! with her flashing eyes,
And her cheek of passion's hue,
In a garment of cloudless blue.
Over land and over sea,
In her warm maturity,
SUMMER SONG. It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it looks; There is sunshine on the old grey hills, and sunshine on the brooks; A singing bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness everywhere. Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, To look upon the beauteous flowers, and watch the opening buds ; Or seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash tree's root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit? When forth I go upon my way, a thousand joys are mine, The clusters of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the rose; And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then how rich the strawberry, how sweet the scent it breathes ! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green leaves ! Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fi'uit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh! summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds and sights ; Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm delights; I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain, And all the winter long I sing—sweet summer, come again.
It is a sultry day, the sun has drunk
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
They may boast of the spring time when flowers are the fairest,
And birds sing by thousands on every green tree;
But Summer is the season that is dearest to me!
The crystal of waters; the fulness of green;
In the glory of Summer can only be seen.
Geranium, pink, fuchsia, with sweet mignonette,
Grows with the dahlias near the fountain's bright jet.
For greenwoods and mountains, for meadows and bowers,
Proudly, lovely and serenely,
Power and passion in her eye,
Comes the summer nymph, July:
Gorgeous as an eastern bride;
O'er the languid landscape wide. Fierce the noontide glory gushes
From the fountains of the sun, And a thousand hues and flushes
Clothe the west when day is done. Scarce the dew hath wet the grasses,
Or the wild flowers curved cup, Than the thirsty sunbeam passes,
Drinking all its nectar up. Now the lurid lightning breaketh
Through the dull and lingering rack, And the solemn thunder speaketh
From his cloud-throne huge and black.
Swathing all the welkin round,
With a quick and pattering sound.
Vanish with the riven gloom, All the breadth of nature under
Wakes to beauty and perfume. Birds again essay their voices;
Bees renew their devious toil;
O’er the promise of the soil.
With a second green are gay;
Lure us from the dusty way:
As they run their pleasant race;
To their cool and calm embrace.
As the golden sunset glows;
To the blandest wind that blows.
Through the tangles of the glade;
J. C. PRINCE.-Adap.
ADDRESS TO AUTUMN. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit, the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel : to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft beneath thy store ?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind, As on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies-while thy hook
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Thou watchest the last oozings-hours by hours.
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,While barr'd clouds bloom the softly dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows borne aloft,
And full grown lambs bleat loud from hilly bourn.
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. KEATS.
THE AUTUMN FLOWER GARDEN.
To himself he talks ;
In the walks :
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
An hour before death;
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath,
Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower
Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. TENNYSON.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
And the winter winds are wearily sighing;
For the old year lies a-dying.
He will not see the dawn of day;
And the new year will take 'em away.
A jollier year we shall not see,
He was a friend to me.
And howling winds our sorrows mock;
'Tis now past twelve o'clock. TENNYSON.-Adap.