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water itself ripples on, clear and musical, and chequered with small shadows from many a leaf, and bush, and moving bough. We lift our heads—and in the west what a ruby sun—what a gorgeous assemblage of sunset clouds!— William Howitt's Sural Life.
Who calleth? I am coming, I am coming
O'er the hills with a swift step, from dawn till gloaming,
Pouring from my broadlipp'd horn
Increase over grass and corn.
As I haste I hear discourses
From the murmurous water-courses,
Of the purple-pinion'd rover,
While from fragrant fields of clover
Comes a drowsy dreamy hum;
They say, "Doth not summer come?"
Who calleth 1 Bird in greenwood, deer in forest,
Meadow blossoms, and those small things (much the dearest)
Who blossom in the town,
And in every alley known
To venturous explorers among men—
All say, "Come, sweet summer, quicken
Thy slow steps, for oh! we sicken
Of the darkness and the snow;
We fain would bud and blow,
And we fain would build our nest
Where the green boughs shelter best,
And we fain would go and play
In the meadows yond' all day.
Who calleth 1 All the great sea-waves are weary
And would like to go to sleep
On the surface of the deep,
And all the little streams awake;
Their silver threads I take,
With the filmy morning mist
By early sunbeams kiss'd,
And wreathe them in a veil about my brow.
If I walk upon the land,
Scattering from my hand
Richest fruits and flowers,
While the winged hours
Paint the sky with gold,
And loveliness untold
Of blue, and rose, and grey
Invoking every day
Oh I little child and sire,
Seated by your waning fire,
With summer comes the universal yearning after her, in no heart so intensely felt as in that of Poet city-pent; witness the following:—
ODE TO SUMMER.
Oh! well may poets make a fuss
Of London pleasures sick:
This endless meal of brick!
What joy have I in June's return 1
I scent no flowery gust:
And turns me " dust to dust."
My sun his daily course renews
The path is dry and hot!
But down a chimney's pot I
Oh ! but to hear the milk-maid blithe,
The dewy meads among!
By folks of vulgar tongue I
ODE TO SUMMEB.
Oh ! but to smell the woodbine sweet,
With very vile rebuffs!
The turtle made at Cuff's.
How tenderly Rousseau review'd
My rose blooms on a gown!
That marks the Bell and Crown!
Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing
Or mourn in thickets deep ]
My blackbird is a sweep!
Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush!
And tune the various song?
Are all my "tuneful throng."
Where are ye, early-purling streams,
And colours of the skies1
Sweet are the little brooks that run
Singing in soothing tones:
Though never "off the stones."
Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep,
Beside your woolly dams?
And skin—not shear—the lambs.
The pipe whereon, in olden day,
Sweetly, here soundeth not;
The rank weed—" piping hot."
All rural things are vilely mock'd,
With objects hard to bear.
An Ingram's rustic chair!
Where are ye, London meads and bowers,
Wherein the zephyr wons?
And that bare wood,—St. John's.
No pastoral scene procures me peace;
No cot set round with trees;
With brokers, not with bees.
Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, " 0 rus I"
Of city pleasures sick:
This endless meal of brick.
Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along,