 | The British Months |  |
Another night! In calm repose
The heav'ns again their windows close.
Again the peaceful brook has found
On either hand its wonted bound:
Where, a thin vein, the waters run,
Quick glancing to the morning sun,
And broider each uncover'd brim
Bright sparkling with a silver rim.
As sinks the slow subsiding surge,
Again the unburden'd meads emerge;
But still the slime and oozy mud
Mark with fresh stains the vanished flood:
Not pleasing to the idle eye;
Yet there the thoughtful mind may spy,
In store beneath the unsightly slime,
The promise of the early prime,
Bright fields with mantle fresh array'd,
The painted flower, the verdant blade!
The heav'ns again their windows close.
Again the peaceful brook has found
On either hand its wonted bound:
Where, a thin vein, the waters run,
Quick glancing to the morning sun,
And broider each uncover'd brim
Bright sparkling with a silver rim.
As sinks the slow subsiding surge,
Again the unburden'd meads emerge;
But still the slime and oozy mud
Mark with fresh stains the vanished flood:
Not pleasing to the idle eye;
Yet there the thoughtful mind may spy,
In store beneath the unsightly slime,
The promise of the early prime,
Bright fields with mantle fresh array'd,
The painted flower, the verdant blade!
457
How scant amid the wintry scene
Is joy's bright tint, the cheerful green!
The brush another Pow'r has caught,
The Genius he of solemn thought;
And all the landscape's face endues
With varied shades of sober hues;
O'er hill and valley, rise and fall,
In mingled patches, dismal all.
All but the sprouting wheat, which shows
Its tender blades in light green rows;
Or where, by peasant's straw-thatched cot,
Peeps forth a little garden plot;
Or their fresh tints the turnips keep,
Fit pasture for the nibbling sheep.
Is joy's bright tint, the cheerful green!
The brush another Pow'r has caught,
The Genius he of solemn thought;
And all the landscape's face endues
With varied shades of sober hues;
O'er hill and valley, rise and fall,
In mingled patches, dismal all.
All but the sprouting wheat, which shows
Its tender blades in light green rows;
Or where, by peasant's straw-thatched cot,
Peeps forth a little garden plot;
Or their fresh tints the turnips keep,
Fit pasture for the nibbling sheep.
Dark is the hill with furrow'd brow,
Fresh turn'd beneath the riving plough.
Stripp'd of each straggling bramble bush,
Of tussock'd grass, and spiky rush,
All dark, and darkly spotted o'er
With turf-stacks, is the peaty moor.
Dark is the mountain, forest-crown'd;
The mantling copse; the hedgerow bound.
All brown, no more with pendants graced
Purple or pink, the heath-clad waste.
Brown, of its waving honours shorn,
The stubble of the golden corn.
With scant and withered herbage brown
The pastures of the upland down.
With gleams of fading verdure mixt,
Light shades of yellowish brown betwixt
Invest the lawn, whose wavy sweep
Is spotted with the fleecy sheep;
But darker still, and day by day
More dismal, shows its dun array.
Ev'n meads, of late so fresh and fair,
The winter's dusky livery wear;
Save where small patches intervene
Of lighter tint, or stripes of green
Mark where the limpid waters pass
In runnels through the living grass.
Like acts of kindness, which dispense
Refreshment to the languid sense,
And of their passage leave a trace
Imprinted on the cheerful face.
Fresh turn'd beneath the riving plough.
Stripp'd of each straggling bramble bush,
Of tussock'd grass, and spiky rush,
All dark, and darkly spotted o'er
With turf-stacks, is the peaty moor.
Dark is the mountain, forest-crown'd;
The mantling copse; the hedgerow bound.
All brown, no more with pendants graced
Purple or pink, the heath-clad waste.
Brown, of its waving honours shorn,
The stubble of the golden corn.
With scant and withered herbage brown
The pastures of the upland down.
With gleams of fading verdure mixt,
Light shades of yellowish brown betwixt
Invest the lawn, whose wavy sweep
Is spotted with the fleecy sheep;
458
More dismal, shows its dun array.
Ev'n meads, of late so fresh and fair,
The winter's dusky livery wear;
Save where small patches intervene
Of lighter tint, or stripes of green
Mark where the limpid waters pass
In runnels through the living grass.
Like acts of kindness, which dispense
Refreshment to the languid sense,
And of their passage leave a trace
Imprinted on the cheerful face.
| The British Months | |