 | Songs of the Seasons |  |
SUMMER.
I am coming, I am coming,
When my sister Spring retires,
Under escort of wing'd lyres,
And with bees around her humming:
Musical wings salute me too,
Blending welcome with adieu,—
Flowers, both of field and garden—
Flowers, too, of lake and fountain,
Of the forest and the mountain,
Hail me as their chosen warden.
Sister Spring around her focus,
Gather'd snowdrop, true! and crocus,
Primroses, and daffodillies,
Violets, hyacinths, and lilies,
In a timid, tearful cluster;
These, and the forget-me-nots,
In the Virgin court made muster,
Sharing her divided thoughts.
With her passing they have died,
Some of them, but not them all.
'Twas her wish to leave the bride
Of the round year, at Whitsuntide,
Some delicate memorial;
And so, I, Summer, am the heiress
Of the Spring, and half her beauty,
And her handmaids, nymphs, and fairies,
Tender me their loving duty.
When my sister Spring retires,
Under escort of wing'd lyres,
And with bees around her humming:
Musical wings salute me too,
Blending welcome with adieu,—
Flowers, both of field and garden—
Flowers, too, of lake and fountain,
Of the forest and the mountain,
Hail me as their chosen warden.
3
Gather'd snowdrop, true! and crocus,
Primroses, and daffodillies,
Violets, hyacinths, and lilies,
In a timid, tearful cluster;
These, and the forget-me-nots,
In the Virgin court made muster,
Sharing her divided thoughts.
With her passing they have died,
Some of them, but not them all.
'Twas her wish to leave the bride
Of the round year, at Whitsuntide,
Some delicate memorial;
And so, I, Summer, am the heiress
Of the Spring, and half her beauty,
And her handmaids, nymphs, and fairies,
Tender me their loving duty.
All this dower I accept,
With the true, becoming grace
Of a monarch in her place,
The donor leaving not unwept!
On the May-day of my birth,
At sunrise, you will find the sward
That belts the hills with emerald girth,
Bathed in dew-drops of regard:
But I have treasures of my own,
To which my sister's fond bequest
(The love excepted, treasure best!)
Endureth no comparison.
A richer glow is on my cheek,
A higher lustre in my eyne;
The generous largess of a queen
Flows from me of its own accord:
They need not but to take, who seek
My bounties, and to praise the Lord!
Poets and artists hold me fast,
With loving clasp at every turn;
In leafy bower, by limpid burn,
In all the nooks of their sojourn,
They study me as I glide past.
Upon the purpling moor, they sing
And sketch their rapture at my knees,
And on the hill-tops stay my wing
With homage; and their mysteries
To keeping of my ear confide,
In barter for the Summer tide.
And wooers also, of a sort,
Less ardent, greet my coming forth,
And travel to the glowing north
From the dull town to pay me court.
To murmuring inlets of the sea—
To breezy outposts upon which
I take my airings and bewitch
The eye with landscape broad and rich,
The ear with flowing melody.
Out with me, in the morning's mist,
Saunters the mineralogist,
Wallet on back, and hammer in hand,
Riving the rock and raking the sand.
Out with me roams, nor cares a whistle
For granite, mica, shale, or schist,
The labour-loving botanist,
Who, in the veriest tare and thistle,
And in the humbler weeds accurst
By toiler with the plough and harrow,
An interest finds, and slakes the thirst
Inherent in his inner marrow.
With the true, becoming grace
Of a monarch in her place,
The donor leaving not unwept!
On the May-day of my birth,
At sunrise, you will find the sward
That belts the hills with emerald girth,
Bathed in dew-drops of regard:
But I have treasures of my own,
To which my sister's fond bequest
4
Endureth no comparison.
A richer glow is on my cheek,
A higher lustre in my eyne;
The generous largess of a queen
Flows from me of its own accord:
They need not but to take, who seek
My bounties, and to praise the Lord!
Poets and artists hold me fast,
With loving clasp at every turn;
In leafy bower, by limpid burn,
In all the nooks of their sojourn,
They study me as I glide past.
Upon the purpling moor, they sing
And sketch their rapture at my knees,
And on the hill-tops stay my wing
With homage; and their mysteries
To keeping of my ear confide,
In barter for the Summer tide.
And wooers also, of a sort,
Less ardent, greet my coming forth,
And travel to the glowing north
From the dull town to pay me court.
To murmuring inlets of the sea—
To breezy outposts upon which
I take my airings and bewitch
The eye with landscape broad and rich,
The ear with flowing melody.
5
Saunters the mineralogist,
Wallet on back, and hammer in hand,
Riving the rock and raking the sand.
Out with me roams, nor cares a whistle
For granite, mica, shale, or schist,
The labour-loving botanist,
Who, in the veriest tare and thistle,
And in the humbler weeds accurst
By toiler with the plough and harrow,
An interest finds, and slakes the thirst
Inherent in his inner marrow.
For such men I create my wonders,
For such I reign and levees hold,
And for their pleasure forge the gold
Whose currency is told in thunders.
For me all hunger, yet ingrates
That in the winters, chill and dreary,
Longed for the spreading of my gates,
Now, these are spread, pronounce me weary.
“Weary, oh! weary is the summer!
Weary, oh! weary is summer time!
Welcome Autumn—the after-comer!”
Is the burden of their rhyme.
The hey-day of my youth is gone,
I, Summer, of the seasons Queen,
Am warned of old age creeping on.
The opal in my mystic crown
Shows waning life; the florid green
Is passing into russet brown.
A chill comes o'er me in the eves,
And creeps along, with snaky stealth:
The hinges of the rustling leaves
Are loosened, and my flowery wealth
Filch'd from its pedestals and stems.
The amber cups and roseate stars—
The carcanets of burning gems—
The hoods, the helmets, and the plumes,
From which the armourer of Mars
Shaped harness, and the maids of Venus
Sore pilfer'd, nor the offence deem'd heinous;
All this, my store of floral wealth
(Who choose may take, and welcome most
The freest taker!)—shows unhealth.
For such I reign and levees hold,
And for their pleasure forge the gold
Whose currency is told in thunders.
For me all hunger, yet ingrates
That in the winters, chill and dreary,
Longed for the spreading of my gates,
Now, these are spread, pronounce me weary.
“Weary, oh! weary is the summer!
Weary, oh! weary is summer time!
Welcome Autumn—the after-comer!”
Is the burden of their rhyme.
The hey-day of my youth is gone,
I, Summer, of the seasons Queen,
Am warned of old age creeping on.
6
Shows waning life; the florid green
Is passing into russet brown.
A chill comes o'er me in the eves,
And creeps along, with snaky stealth:
The hinges of the rustling leaves
Are loosened, and my flowery wealth
Filch'd from its pedestals and stems.
The amber cups and roseate stars—
The carcanets of burning gems—
The hoods, the helmets, and the plumes,
From which the armourer of Mars
Shaped harness, and the maids of Venus
Sore pilfer'd, nor the offence deem'd heinous;
All this, my store of floral wealth
(Who choose may take, and welcome most
The freest taker!)—shows unhealth.
Well! Summer, like her sister, Spring,
Must wane and die, if that be death
Which is the folding of the wing,
And the withdrawing of the breath
A measur'd space! I come again
In my own season, all renewed,
To inspire new hymns of gratitude,
And cause the palms of pious men
To meet in praiseful attitude.
Farewell! I hear the reaper's song,
The vintage gatherer draws nigh,
The hornets round the nectarine throng,
The corn-ears rustle and around
My closing curtains flits a sigh!
I die! I die!
Must wane and die, if that be death
Which is the folding of the wing,
And the withdrawing of the breath
A measur'd space! I come again
In my own season, all renewed,
To inspire new hymns of gratitude,
And cause the palms of pious men
To meet in praiseful attitude.
Farewell! I hear the reaper's song,
7
The hornets round the nectarine throng,
The corn-ears rustle and around
My closing curtains flits a sigh!
I die! I die!
| Songs of the Seasons | |