July the month of summers prime Again resumes her busy time Scythes tinkle in each grassy dell Where solitude was wont to dwell And meadows they are mad with noise Of laughing maids and shouting boys Making up the withering hay With merry hearts as light as play The very insects on the ground So nimbly bustle all around Among the grass or dusty soil They seem partakers in the toil The very landscape reels with life While mid the busy stir and strife Of industry the shepherd still Enjoys his summer dreams at will Bent oer his hook or listless laid Beneath the pastures willow shade Whose foliage shines so cool and grey Amid the sultry hues of day As if the mornings misty veil Yet lingered in their shadows pale Or lolling in a musing mood On mounds where saxon castles stood Upon whose deeply buried walls The ivyed oaks dark shadow falls Oft picking up with wondering gaze Some little thing of other days Saved from the wreck of time-as beads Or broken pots among the weeds Of curious shapes-and many a stone Of roman pavements thickly sown Oft hoping as he searches round That buried riches may be found Tho search as often as he will His hopes are dissapointed still And marking oft upon his seat The insect world beneath his feet In busy motion here and there Like visitors to feast or fair Some climbing up the rushes stem Hugh steeples height or more to them With speed that sees no fear to drop Till perched upon its spirey top Where they awhile the view survey Then prune their wings and flit away Others journying too and fro Among the grassy woods below Musing as if they felt and knew The pleasant scenes they wandered thro Where each bent round them seems to be Hugh as a jiant timber tree While pismires from their castles come In crowds to seek the litterd crumb Which he on purpose drops that they May hawl the heavy loads away Shaping the while their dark employs To his own visionary joys Picturing such a life as theirs As free from summers sweating cares And inly wishing that his own Coud meet with joys so thickly sown Sport seems the all that they pursue And play the only work they do The cowboy still cuts short the day In mingling mischief with his play Oft in the pond with weeds oer grown Hurling quick the plashing stone To cheat his dog who watching lies And instant plunges for the prize And tho each effort proves as vain He shakes his coat and dives again Till wearied with the fruitless play Then drops his tail and sneaks away Nor longer heeds the bawling boy Who seeks new sports with added joy And on some banks oer hanging brow Beats the whasps nest with a bough Till armys from the hole appear And threaten vengance in his ear With such determined hue and cry As makes the bold besieger flye Elsewhere fresh mischief to renew And still his teazing sports pursue Pelting with excessive glee The squirrel on the wood land tree Who nimbles round from grain to grain And cocks his tail and peeps again Half pleased as if he thought the fray Which mischief made was meant for play Till scared and startled into flight He instant hurries out of sight Thus he his leisure hour employs And feeds on busy meddling joys While in the willow shaded pool His cattle stand their hides to cool Loud is the summers busy song The smalles breeze can find a tongue Where insects of each tiney size Grow teazing with their melodys Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around and day dyes still as death The busy noise of man and brute Is on a sudden lost and mute The cuckoo singing as she flies No more to mocking boy replys Even the brook that leaps along Seems weary of its bubbling song And so soft its waters creep Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep The cricket on its banks is dumb The very flies forget to hum And save the waggon rocking round The lanscape sleeps without a sound The breeze is stopt the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that dances now The totter grass upon the hill And spiders threads are standing still The feathers dropt from more hens wing Which to the waters surface cling Are stedfast and as heavy seem As stones beneath them in the stream Hawkweeds and Groundsells fanning downs Unruffled keep their seedy crowns And in the oven heated air Not one light thing is floating there -Save that to the earnest eye The restless heat seems twittering bye Noon swoons beneath the heat it made And flowers een wither in the shade Untill the sun slopes in the west Like weary traveler glad to rest On pillard clouds of many hues Then natures voice its joy renews And checkerd field and grassy plain Hum with their summer songs again A requiem to the days decline Whose setting sun beams cooly shine A welcome to days feeble powers As evening dews on thirsty flowers Now to the pleasant pasture dells Where hay from closes sweetly smells Adown the pathways narrow lane The milking maiden hies again With scraps of ballads never dumb And rosey cheeks of happy bloom Tanned brown by summers rude embrace That adds new beautys to her face And red lips never paled with sighs And flowing hair and laughing eyes That oer full many a heart prevailed And swelling bosom loosly veiled White as the love it harbours there Unsullied with the taints of care The mower gives his labour oer And on his bench beside the door Sits down to see his childern play Or smokes his leisure hour away While from her cage the blackbird sings That on the wood bine arbour hings And all with happy joys receive The quiet of a summers eveSourceThe script ran 0.002 seconds.
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