The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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A SUMMER'S DAY. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
50
A SUMMER'S DAY.
Scared at the aspect of advancing Day,
Stern Night puts on his starry robe, and flies;
The joyous lark pours forth his earliest lay,
And bathes his pinions in the dewy skies.
Behold the graceful smoke-wreath warmly rise
From quiet hamlets scattered far and near,
While from his sheltered home the woodman hies,
To win his bread where yonder woods appear.
Look down upon this laughing valley here,
Where stream and pool are kindled into gold,
And on the summer vesture of the eyar,
Flowers of all hues their balmy eyes unfold.
Escaped from slumber's enervating arms,
I bound at Nature's voice, and own her purer charms.
Stern Night puts on his starry robe, and flies;
The joyous lark pours forth his earliest lay,
And bathes his pinions in the dewy skies.
Behold the graceful smoke-wreath warmly rise
From quiet hamlets scattered far and near,
While from his sheltered home the woodman hies,
To win his bread where yonder woods appear.
Look down upon this laughing valley here,
Where stream and pool are kindled into gold,
And on the summer vesture of the eyar,
Flowers of all hues their balmy eyes unfold.
Escaped from slumber's enervating arms,
I bound at Nature's voice, and own her purer charms.
Lo! reared sublime on his meridian seat,
The eternal Sun pours down o'erwhelming rays;
How shall we bear the splendour of his gaze,
His fierce intensity of light and heat?
Nature grows faint where'er his fervours beat;
Shrunk are the flowers in Summer's vestment wove,
Mute is the music of the sky and grove,
And not a zephyr comes, the brow to greet;—
Fit time to seek the woodland's dark retreat,
Where scarce a sunbeam trembles through the shade,
And, on the rivulet's fresh margin laid,
Pass noontide's hour in meditation sweet,
Far from all earthly sights and sounds, save those
Which soothe the harassed mind to solitude's repose.
The eternal Sun pours down o'erwhelming rays;
How shall we bear the splendour of his gaze,
His fierce intensity of light and heat?
Nature grows faint where'er his fervours beat;
Shrunk are the flowers in Summer's vestment wove,
Mute is the music of the sky and grove,
And not a zephyr comes, the brow to greet;—
Fit time to seek the woodland's dark retreat,
Where scarce a sunbeam trembles through the shade,
And, on the rivulet's fresh margin laid,
51
Far from all earthly sights and sounds, save those
Which soothe the harassed mind to solitude's repose.
Like the warm hectic-flush on beauty's cheek,
The hues of sunset linger in the sky;
But lo! as treacherous, they but brightly speak
The hastening close of day's expiring eye.
All richly now yon western glories die,
Quenched in the shadows of approaching night;
The quiet moon hath hung her lamp on high,
And Hesper's star breaks sweetly on the sight;
The flowers are closed, yet Zephyr in his flight
Bears living fragrance on his wanton wings;
Meanwhile a pure uncertainty of light
Steals calm and soft athwart the face of things;
Enchanting eve! mild promiser of rest!
How dear thy presence to the mourner's breast!
The hues of sunset linger in the sky;
But lo! as treacherous, they but brightly speak
The hastening close of day's expiring eye.
All richly now yon western glories die,
Quenched in the shadows of approaching night;
The quiet moon hath hung her lamp on high,
And Hesper's star breaks sweetly on the sight;
The flowers are closed, yet Zephyr in his flight
Bears living fragrance on his wanton wings;
Meanwhile a pure uncertainty of light
Steals calm and soft athwart the face of things;
Enchanting eve! mild promiser of rest!
How dear thy presence to the mourner's breast!
Sweet is the smile of dewy-footed morn—
Sweet the bright ardour of the lusty noon—
Sweet are the sighs of evening, when the tune
Of flute-toned voices on the air is borne;—
But sweeter still, when living gems adorn
His awful brow, is philosophic Night:
Then contemplation takes a boundless flight,
Through realms untainted by this world of scorn.
What peace to sit beneath this shadowy thorn,
Where the lone wave steals by with gentle sound—
The wan moon's soft effulgence slumbering round—
And drink from Fancy's everflowing horn!
What joy, when forth the unshackled spirit springs,
To hold high converse with all nobler things!
Sweet the bright ardour of the lusty noon—
Sweet are the sighs of evening, when the tune
Of flute-toned voices on the air is borne;—
But sweeter still, when living gems adorn
His awful brow, is philosophic Night:
Then contemplation takes a boundless flight,
Through realms untainted by this world of scorn.
What peace to sit beneath this shadowy thorn,
Where the lone wave steals by with gentle sound—
The wan moon's soft effulgence slumbering round—
And drink from Fancy's everflowing horn!
What joy, when forth the unshackled spirit springs,
To hold high converse with all nobler things!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |