 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
317
JUNE.
“Now have green April and the blue-eyed May
Vanished awhile; and lo! the glorious June
(While Nature ripens in his burning noon)
Comes like a young inheritor.”
Barry Cornwall.
Vanished awhile; and lo! the glorious June
(While Nature ripens in his burning noon)
Comes like a young inheritor.”
Barry Cornwall.
Armida's garden, ever bright,
And odorous with enchanted flowers,
Was not more rich in bloom and light
Than now is this fair world of ours,
While June floats on the melting air,
With rose-buds in his lustrous hair,
Above the grave of Spring;—
On high the fleecy clouds are piled,
And round him, with a twitter wild,
Dart swallows on the wing.
And odorous with enchanted flowers,
Was not more rich in bloom and light
Than now is this fair world of ours,
While June floats on the melting air,
With rose-buds in his lustrous hair,
Above the grave of Spring;—
On high the fleecy clouds are piled,
And round him, with a twitter wild,
Dart swallows on the wing.
Where spreads the meadow, broad and long,
Its velvet to the river's brink,
There is a rivalry in song
Between the lark and bobolink;
While sunny skies drop golden rain,
The former pours a fife-like strain
From her expanding throat—
The latter, on some grassy spire,
Rocks to and fro—a feathered lyre
Of full, voluptuous note.
Its velvet to the river's brink,
There is a rivalry in song
Between the lark and bobolink;
While sunny skies drop golden rain,
The former pours a fife-like strain
From her expanding throat—
The latter, on some grassy spire,
Rocks to and fro—a feathered lyre
Of full, voluptuous note.
Gay, voiceful things, in every hue
That paints the braided rainbow clad,
And over-fed with honey-dew,
Dart by, deliriously glad;
An elfin crowd are hither drawn,
And mourning grasps King Oberon
A dimmed and broken wand.
For youthful June hath made the face
Of Earth a sweeter dwelling-place
Than even Fairy Land.
That paints the braided rainbow clad,
And over-fed with honey-dew,
Dart by, deliriously glad;
An elfin crowd are hither drawn,
And mourning grasps King Oberon
A dimmed and broken wand.
318
Of Earth a sweeter dwelling-place
Than even Fairy Land.
Vans, richly striped, young butterflies,
Perched on the flowers, expand and close,
And humble-bees, with waxen thighs,
Pay noisy visits to the rose:
Urns that the wine of morning hold
Lure, clothed in purple, green and gold,
The restless humming-bird,—
An opal flashing in the light,
Compared with hues that deck the sprite,
Would dull appear and blurred.
Perched on the flowers, expand and close,
And humble-bees, with waxen thighs,
Pay noisy visits to the rose:
Urns that the wine of morning hold
Lure, clothed in purple, green and gold,
The restless humming-bird,—
An opal flashing in the light,
Compared with hues that deck the sprite,
Would dull appear and blurred.
Laburnums, by the zephyr wooed,
Their yellow ringlets lightly shake,
And, types of graceful maidenhood,
Tall lilies from their slumber wake,
Kissing each other, while they fling
Elysian fragrance forth, and swing
Upon their flexile stalks;
Syringas rustle, draped with snow,
And peonies with purple strew
The level garden walks.
Their yellow ringlets lightly shake,
And, types of graceful maidenhood,
Tall lilies from their slumber wake,
Kissing each other, while they fling
Elysian fragrance forth, and swing
Upon their flexile stalks;
Syringas rustle, draped with snow,
And peonies with purple strew
The level garden walks.
St. John's charmed eve was hailed of yore
With feast and dance in England old,
But down the verdant slope no more
The redly-blazing wheel is rolled;
No more the dewy moonlit glade
Is visited by love-lorn maid,
For plant of magic power,
That, placed beneath her pillowed head,
Would waken dreams of woe and dread,
Or the glad nuptial hour.
With feast and dance in England old,
But down the verdant slope no more
The redly-blazing wheel is rolled;
No more the dewy moonlit glade
Is visited by love-lorn maid,
For plant of magic power,
That, placed beneath her pillowed head,
Would waken dreams of woe and dread,
Or the glad nuptial hour.
319
When Tyrian dyes no longer paint
The cloudy portals of the West,
The whippowill begins her plaint
With swelling neck and throbbing breast;
Each note of Night's mysterious bird
By listener, far away, is heard
Sad as the dirge of Joy:
Or cry by pale Ænòne raised,
Hunting, while stars on Ida gazed,
For her Dardanian boy.
The cloudy portals of the West,
The whippowill begins her plaint
With swelling neck and throbbing breast;
Each note of Night's mysterious bird
By listener, far away, is heard
Sad as the dirge of Joy:
Or cry by pale Ænòne raised,
Hunting, while stars on Ida gazed,
For her Dardanian boy.
When hushed the robin's vesper song,
By moonlight to the woods I hie,
Then couch me down, and listen long
To voices that go wandering by;
Wind, wave, and leaf, in concert blend,
And tones, by day unheard, ascend
From glen and mossy floor;
That wondrous music, soft and low,
Heard by the son of Prospero,
Would not enchant me more.
By moonlight to the woods I hie,
Then couch me down, and listen long
To voices that go wandering by;
Wind, wave, and leaf, in concert blend,
And tones, by day unheard, ascend
From glen and mossy floor;
That wondrous music, soft and low,
Heard by the son of Prospero,
Would not enchant me more.
A yearning in the heart awakes
From human neighborhood to flee,
And tread the shores of breezy lakes,
Or climb the hills, a rover free;
“Away!” a voice upon me calls—
“Thy cheek its color from the walls
That hem thee in, hath caught;
Go forth! and on thy troubled brain
Will, angel-like, descend again
The holy calm of thought.”
From human neighborhood to flee,
And tread the shores of breezy lakes,
Or climb the hills, a rover free;
“Away!” a voice upon me calls—
“Thy cheek its color from the walls
That hem thee in, hath caught;
Go forth! and on thy troubled brain
Will, angel-like, descend again
The holy calm of thought.”
Oh, June! with thee return no more
The feelings of my boyhood wild;
Earth, then, a brighter vesture wore,
More graciously the morning smiled;
The ruddy strawberries of old
Drew flavor from a richer mould
Than those I gather now;
More kindly dew by night was showered,
And swathed in deeper azure towered
The mountain's piny brow.
The feelings of my boyhood wild;
Earth, then, a brighter vesture wore,
More graciously the morning smiled;
320
Drew flavor from a richer mould
Than those I gather now;
More kindly dew by night was showered,
And swathed in deeper azure towered
The mountain's piny brow.
“Man changes with the lapse of years”—
A low, rebuking voice replies—
“He hears, at length, with other ears,
And sees, alas! with other eyes.
Back comes young Summer with the glow
That flushed her features long ago,
And Nature still is true;
But hopes that charmed thy youth are dead—
The sunshine of thy heart is fled,
Its innocency too.”
A low, rebuking voice replies—
“He hears, at length, with other ears,
And sees, alas! with other eyes.
Back comes young Summer with the glow
That flushed her features long ago,
And Nature still is true;
But hopes that charmed thy youth are dead—
The sunshine of thy heart is fled,
Its innocency too.”
The violet peeps from its emerald bed,
And rivals the azure, in hue, overhead—
To the breeze sweeping by on invisible wings
Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings,
And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heard,
Sweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.
And rivals the azure, in hue, overhead—
To the breeze sweeping by on invisible wings
Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings,
And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heard,
Sweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.
The swallow is dipping his wing in the tide,
And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied;
Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine,
And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine,
Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray—
Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.
And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied;
Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine,
And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine,
Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray—
Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.
Oft forsaking the haunts and the dwellings of men,
I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen,
And the presence of June making vocal each bough,
Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow:
The rustling of leaves, the blythe hum of the bee,
Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.
I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen,
And the presence of June making vocal each bough,
Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow:
The rustling of leaves, the blythe hum of the bee,
Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.
321
When the rose bends with dew on her emerald throne,
And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown;
When the musical thrush is asleep on the nest,
And the red bird is in her light hammock at rest;
When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill,
Is heard thy sad anthem, forlorn whippowill!
And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown;
When the musical thrush is asleep on the nest,
And the red bird is in her light hammock at rest;
When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill,
Is heard thy sad anthem, forlorn whippowill!
The Indian, as twilight was fading away,
Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay,
And supposing thy note the precursor of woe,
Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe—
But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight,
When the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!
Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay,
And supposing thy note the precursor of woe,
Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe—
But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight,
When the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!
Brightest month of the year! when thy chaplet grows pale,
I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale;
The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair,
In clearness cannot with thy waters compare—
Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vie
With the tint of thy rose or the hue of thy sky.
I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale;
The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair,
In clearness cannot with thy waters compare—
Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vie
With the tint of thy rose or the hue of thy sky.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |