University of Virginia Library

Now comes July, and with his fervid noon
Unsinews labour. The swinkt mower sleeps.
The weary maid rakes feebly. The warm swain
Pitches his load reluctant. 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 arbor, 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 th' 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 heav'n
Broke loose, and shook your coward habitation.
Fear not; for if a life of innocence,
And that which we deem virtue here below,
Can hold the forky bolt, ye may presume
To look and live. Yet be not bold, but shew
Some pious dread, some grave astonishment.
For all our worthy deeds are nothing worth;
And if the solemn tempest cut us short
In our best hour, we are in debt to heav'n.

The storm subsided, and the day begun,
Who would not walk along the sandy way,
To smell the shower's fragrance, see the sun
With his sheer eye ascend the zenith joyous,
Mark the still-rumbling cloud crowding away
Indignant, and embrace the gentle breeze,
That idly wantons with the dewy leaf,
And shakes the pearly rain-drop to the ground?
How sweet the incense of reviving flow'rs!
Ye must abroad, ye fair. The angry night
Has done you mischief. Ev'ry plant will need
Your kindly hand to rear its falling head.

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,
Your Christian armour, Gospel-preparation,
But sandals for the feet, that tread with ease,
Nor feel those harsh asperities of life,
Which ignorance and superstition dread?
I much admire we ever should complain
That life is sharp and painful, when ourselves
Create the better half of all our woe.
Whom can he blame who shudders at the sight
Of his own candle, and foretells with grief
A winding sheet? who starts at the red coal
Which bounces from his fire, and picks it up,
His hair on end, a coffin? spills his salt,
And dreads disaster? dreams of pleasant fields,
And smells a corpse? and ever shuns with care
The unpropitious hour to pare his nails?
Such fears but ill become a soul that thinks.
Let time bring forth what heavy plagues it will.
Who pain anticipates, that pain feels twice,
And often feels in vain. Yet, though I blame
The man who with too busy eye unfolds
The page of time, and reads his lot amiss,
I can applaud to see the smiling maid
With pretty superstition pluck a rose,
And lay it by till Christmas. I can look
With much complacency on all her arts
To know the future husband. Yes, ye fair,
I deem it good to take from years to come
A loan of happiness. We could not live,
Did we not hope to-morrow would produce
A better lot than we enjoy to-day.
Hope is the dearest med'cine of the soul,
A sweet oblivious antidote, which heals
The better half of all the pains of life.

Now o'er his corn the sturdy farmer looks,
And swells with satisfaction to behold
The plenteous harvest which repays his toil.
We too are gratified, and feel a joy
Inferior but to his, partakers all
Of the rich bounty Providence has strew'd
In plentiful profusion o'er the field.
Tell me ye fair, Alcanor tell me, what
Is to the eye more cheerful, to the heart
More satisfactive, than to look abroad,
And from the window see the reaper strip,
Look round, and put his sickle to the wheat?
Or hear the early mower whet his scythe,
And see where he has cut his sounding way,
E'en to the utmost edge of the brown field
Of oats or barley? What delights us more,
Than studiously to trace the vast effects
Of unabated labour? to observe
How soon the golden field abounds with sheaves?
How soon the oat and bearded barley fall,
In frequent lines, before the keen-edg'd scythe?
The clatt'ring team then comes, the swarthy hind
Down leaps, and doffs his frock alert, and plies
The shining fork. Down to the stubble's edge
The easy wain descends half built, then turns,
And labours up again. From pile to pile
With rustling step the swain proceeds, and still
Bears to the groaning load the well-poiz'd sheaf.
The gleaner follows, and with studious eye
And bended shoulders traverses the field
To cull the scatter'd ear, the perquisite
By heaven's decree assign'd to them who need,
And neither sow nor reap. Ye who have sown,
And reap so plenteously, and find the grange
Too narrow to contain the harvest given,
Be not severe, and grudge the needy poor
So small a portion. Scatter many an ear,
Nor let it grieve you to forget a sheaf,
And overlook the loss. For he who gave
Will bounteously reward the purpos'd wrong
Done to yourselves; nay more, will twice repay
The generous neglect. The field is clear'd;
No sheaf remains; and now the empty wain
A load less honourable waits. Vast toil succeeds,
And still the team retreats, and still returns
To be again full-fraught. Proceed, ye swains,
And make one autumn of your lives, your toil
Still new, your harvest never done. Proceed,
And stay the progress of the falling year,
And let the cheerful valley laugh and sing,
Crown'd with perpetual August. Never faint,
Nor ever let us hear the hearty shout
Sent up to heaven, your annual work complete,
And harvest ended. It may seem to you
The sound of joy, but not of joy to us.
We grieve to think how soon your efforts cease,
How soon the plenteous year resigns her fruits,
And waits the mute approach of surly Winter.

One labour more the cheerful hand awaits;
Then the glad year is done. We seize with joy
The precious interval, and shape our walk
At early evening down the meadow path;
Till sunk into the vale, fast by the brook
We spy the blooming hop, and with light heart
The glorious garden enter. Tell me not,
Ye who, in love with wealth, your days consume
Pent up in city stench, and smoke, and filth:
O tell me not of aught magnificent
Or fair as this, in all your public walks.
What are the charms your Ranelagh affords
Compar'd with ours? Search all your gardens round,
Ye shall not find e'en at your boasted Vaux
A haunt so neat, so elegant as this.
Long let us stray, and frequently repeat
Our ev'ning's homage to the blooming hop.
Spare him, ye swains, pernicious insects spare,
Ye howling tempests, come not near his branch,
But let him hang till I have gaz'd my fill.
Then shall he fall, and his gay honours shed,
And your forbearance plenteously repay
With his abundant gold. Long let us stray,
Enjoy the grateful covert, and admire
The one continu'd cluster over-head
Of blossoms interwoven, and depending
E'en to the touch and smell. Long let us stray,
And ever as we come to the shorn mead,
And quit the garden with reluctance, then,
When we behold the smiling valley spread
In gay luxuriance far before us, sheep
And oxen grazing, till the eye is staid,
The sinuous prospect turning from the view,
And all above us to the left and right
Enchanting woodland to the topmost hill—
Then let the village bells, as often wont,
Come swelling on the breeze, and to the sun,
Half-set, sing merrily their ev'ning song.
I ask not for the cause—it matters not.
It is enough for me to hear the sound
Of the remote exhilarating peal,
Now dying all away, now faintly heard,
And now with loud and musical relapse
Its mellow changes huddling on the ear.
So have I stood at eve on Isis' banks,
To hear the merry Christ-Church bells rejoice.
So have I sat too in thy honour'd shades,
Distinguish'd Magdalen, on Cherwell's brink,
To hear thy silver Wolsey tones so sweet.
And so too have I paus'd and held my oar,
And suffer'd the slow stream to bear me home,
While Wykeham's peal along the meadow ran.