The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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JULY. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
JULY.
Proudly, lovely, and serenely,
Power and passion in her eye,
With an aspect calm and queenly,
Comes the summer nymph, July—
Crowned with azure, clothed with splendour,
Gorgeous as an eastern bride,
While the glowing hours attend her
O'er the languid landscape wide.
Power and passion in her eye,
With an aspect calm and queenly,
Comes the summer nymph, July—
Crowned with azure, clothed with splendour,
Gorgeous as an eastern bride,
While the glowing hours attend her
O'er the languid landscape wide.
316
Now the mantle of Aurora
Streams along the morning skies,
But the bridal wreath of Flora
Loses half its sweets and dyes.
Fierce the noontide glory gushes
From the fountains of the sun,
And a thousand stains and flushes
Strew the heavens when day is done.
Streams along the morning skies,
But the bridal wreath of Flora
Loses half its sweets and dyes.
Fierce the noontide glory gushes
From the fountains of the sun,
And a thousand stains and flushes
Strew the heavens when day is done.
Then the heavy dew-pearls glisten
In the twilight pure and pale,
And the drooping roses listen
To the love-lorn nightingale:
While the stars come out and cluster
With a dim and dreary light,
And the moon's pervading lustre
Takes all sternness from the night.
In the twilight pure and pale,
And the drooping roses listen
To the love-lorn nightingale:
While the stars come out and cluster
With a dim and dreary light,
And the moon's pervading lustre
Takes all sternness from the night.
Scarce the weary lark betakes him
To his ground-nest on the plain,
Than returning day-spring wakes him
Into gladsome voice again;
Scarce the dew hath wet the grasses,
Or the wild-flower's curvèd cup,
Than the thirsty sunbeam passes,
Drinking all its nectar up.
To his ground-nest on the plain,
Than returning day-spring wakes him
Into gladsome voice again;
Scarce the dew hath wet the grasses,
Or the wild-flower's curvèd 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 its cloud-throne bronzed and black.
Gleaming in the fitful flashes,
Swathing all the welkin round,
Rain, smit earthward, dances, dashes,
With a quick, tumultuous sound.
Through the dull and lingering rack,
And the solemn thunder speaketh
From its cloud-throne bronzed and black.
Gleaming in the fitful flashes,
Swathing all the welkin round,
Rain, smit earthward, dances, dashes,
With a quick, tumultuous sound.
317
As the lightning, rain, and thunder,
Vanish with the cloven gloom,
All the breadth of nature under
Wakes to beauty and perfume.
Birds again essay their voices;
Bees renew their devious toil;
Man with grateful heart rejoices
O'er the promise of the soil.
Vanish with the cloven gloom,
All the breadth of nature under
Wakes to beauty and perfume.
Birds again essay their voices;
Bees renew their devious toil;
Man with grateful heart rejoices
O'er the promise of the soil.
Now the harvest-gathered meadows
With a second green are gay;
Now the wood's enwoven shadows
Lure us from the dusty way;
More than wont the streams delight us,
As they run their pleasant race—
And the lucid pools invite us
To their calm and cool embrace.
With a second green are gay;
Now the wood's enwoven shadows
Lure us from the dusty way;
More than wont the streams delight us,
As they run their pleasant race—
And the lucid pools invite us
To their calm and cool embrace.
Shall I not, as here I wander,
Soul, and sense, and footstep free,
Where the fretful streams meander,
With a music dear to me—
Shall I not remember sadly
Those who have nor hope nor rest,—
Those who cannot know how gladly
Nature welcomes every guest?
Soul, and sense, and footstep free,
Where the fretful streams meander,
With a music dear to me—
Shall I not remember sadly
Those who have nor hope nor rest,—
Those who cannot know how gladly
Nature welcomes every guest?
Would the dwellers of the alleys,
In the city's stony heart,
Could behold these blithesome valleys,
From their wants and cares apart!
Would the pale and patient maiden,
Martyred at the shrine of Wealth,
Could but feel these breezes, laden
With the priceless blessing, health!
In the city's stony heart,
Could behold these blithesome valleys,
From their wants and cares apart!
Would the pale and patient maiden,
Martyred at the shrine of Wealth,
Could but feel these breezes, laden
With the priceless blessing, health!
318
Would the tiny toiling creatures
In the noisome mine and mill,
On whose withered hearts and features
Moral mischief works its will;
Would that they might lift their faces
In this liberal light and air,
And perceive the nameless graces
Of a scene so passing fair!
In the noisome mine and mill,
On whose withered hearts and features
Moral mischief works its will;
Would that they might lift their faces
In this liberal light and air,
And perceive the nameless graces
Of a scene so passing fair!
Let me homeward by the river,
As the golden sunset glows,
Where the corn-fields swell and shiver
To the blandest wind that blows:
By the woodland brooks that darkle
Through the tangles of the glade;
By the mossy wells that sparkle
In the hawthorn's chequered shade.
As the golden sunset glows,
Where the corn-fields swell and shiver
To the blandest wind that blows:
By the woodland brooks that darkle
Through the tangles of the glade;
By the mossy wells that sparkle
In the hawthorn's chequered shade.
Through the dingle deep and bowery,
Up the pasture paths above,
Through the silent lane and flowery,
Sacred to the vows of love.
Homeward, yet I pause, exploring
All thy burning breadth of sky,
While my spirit sings, adoring
Him, thy God and mine, July.
Up the pasture paths above,
Through the silent lane and flowery,
Sacred to the vows of love.
Homeward, yet I pause, exploring
All thy burning breadth of sky,
While my spirit sings, adoring
Him, thy God and mine, July.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |