 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
322
JULY
Thrice happy he! who on the sunless side
Of a romantic mountain, forest crowned,
Beneath the whole collected shade reclines.”
Thompson.
Of a romantic mountain, forest crowned,
Beneath the whole collected shade reclines.”
Thompson.
Thronged yesterday the young and old,
With a deep murmur like the main
Ten thousand banners were unrolled,
And trumpets woke a martial strain:
While cannon flashed their reddening fires,
And clangor came from trembling spires,
Glad ears the signal caught:
The scythe hung idly on the tree,
For a great day of jubilee
The Julian month had brought.
With a deep murmur like the main
Ten thousand banners were unrolled,
And trumpets woke a martial strain:
While cannon flashed their reddening fires,
And clangor came from trembling spires,
Glad ears the signal caught:
The scythe hung idly on the tree,
For a great day of jubilee
The Julian month had brought.
Woe to a country when the weeds
Grow darkly on its altar-hearth,
And fade from memory the deeds
Of men who woke the sleep of Earth!
Cementing in the battle storm,
With their best blood, the blocks that form
A dome where millions meet—
A stately dome of many doors,
To all unfolded, and whose floors
Are trod by chainless feet.
Grow darkly on its altar-hearth,
And fade from memory the deeds
Of men who woke the sleep of Earth!
Cementing in the battle storm,
With their best blood, the blocks that form
A dome where millions meet—
A stately dome of many doors,
To all unfolded, and whose floors
Are trod by chainless feet.
What pictures to poetic eye
More beauteous than these wood-girt glades,
Fields full of oats and bearded rye,
And dark green corn with flaunting blades?
Warm airs, in dalliance with the wheat,
Awaken murmurs low and sweet,
And sturdy reapers swing
Light cradles now on hill and plain,
And from their finger-points the grain
With measured motion fling.
More beauteous than these wood-girt glades,
Fields full of oats and bearded rye,
And dark green corn with flaunting blades?
Warm airs, in dalliance with the wheat,
Awaken murmurs low and sweet,
323
Light cradles now on hill and plain,
And from their finger-points the grain
With measured motion fling.
When noon pours down his fiercest ray,
And seems a-blaze the gliding rill,
The bird sits panting on the spray,
With lifted wing and open bill;
Upon the meadow's grassy floor,
Beneath old oaks—their dinner o'er—
Hay-making groups recline;
From sunny grass-lands to the cool,
Dark waters of the shaded pool
Wend slow the weary kine.
And seems a-blaze the gliding rill,
The bird sits panting on the spray,
With lifted wing and open bill;
Upon the meadow's grassy floor,
Beneath old oaks—their dinner o'er—
Hay-making groups recline;
From sunny grass-lands to the cool,
Dark waters of the shaded pool
Wend slow the weary kine.
Ere thunder shakes the solid land,
And the big drops drench hill and vale,
Herds in the withering pasture stand,
With necks outstretched, and snuff the gale;
Changed in a moment is the sky
From azure of the deepest dye
To gloomy, funeral black;
And the broad mirror of the stream
Blinds with its brightness, while the gleam
Of lightning it gives back.
And the big drops drench hill and vale,
Herds in the withering pasture stand,
With necks outstretched, and snuff the gale;
Changed in a moment is the sky
From azure of the deepest dye
To gloomy, funeral black;
And the broad mirror of the stream
Blinds with its brightness, while the gleam
Of lightning it gives back.
When over is the pleasant shower
The birds a song of transport wake,
And diamonds, in the sheltering bower
From their oiled plumage blithely shake:
Earth laughs, endowed with newer life,
And subtle airs, with fragrance rife,
Lift the damp, whispering leaves;
And briskly, now, in fields of grain,
Toils, with a youthful band, the swain
To dry the dripping sheaves.
The birds a song of transport wake,
And diamonds, in the sheltering bower
From their oiled plumage blithely shake:
Earth laughs, endowed with newer life,
And subtle airs, with fragrance rife,
Lift the damp, whispering leaves;
And briskly, now, in fields of grain,
Toils, with a youthful band, the swain
To dry the dripping sheaves.
324
The choking summer-dust that made
The faint, wayfaring crowd complain,
Is like an evil spirit laid
By music of the pattering rain;
Thus often, in a feverish dream,
Tones, like the murmur of a stream,
Ill-boding forms disperse;
And deserts, hot and parched before,
Transformed to fruitful fields, no more
Tell of a blighting curse.
The faint, wayfaring crowd complain,
Is like an evil spirit laid
By music of the pattering rain;
Thus often, in a feverish dream,
Tones, like the murmur of a stream,
Ill-boding forms disperse;
And deserts, hot and parched before,
Transformed to fruitful fields, no more
Tell of a blighting curse.
Stained with the ruddy hue of blood,
Young berry hunters may be seen
Bearing full baskets from the wood,
With brake-leaf covers fresh and green;
And when the magic afternoon
Of Saturday, that ends too soon,
Depopulates the school,
Go forth a throng of urchins brave,
Shouting their joy, to breast the wave
In pond or dimpling pool.
Young berry hunters may be seen
Bearing full baskets from the wood,
With brake-leaf covers fresh and green;
And when the magic afternoon
Of Saturday, that ends too soon,
Depopulates the school,
Go forth a throng of urchins brave,
Shouting their joy, to breast the wave
In pond or dimpling pool.
When Day, aweary, on the breast
Of gentle Eve a pillow finds,
Lulled into soft, voluptuous rest
By rippling waves and voiceful winds;
Small fire-flies darting to and fro,
Bespangle leaves and meadows low,
And the moon, rising, fills
The calm blue vault of Heaven with light,
And dim and vapory forms take flight
From the high Eastern hills.
Of gentle Eve a pillow finds,
Lulled into soft, voluptuous rest
By rippling waves and voiceful winds;
Small fire-flies darting to and fro,
Bespangle leaves and meadows low,
And the moon, rising, fills
The calm blue vault of Heaven with light,
And dim and vapory forms take flight
From the high Eastern hills.
Month of heroic thoughts, July!
I love thy hot, embrowning ray—
The fleecy cloudlets of thy sky,
The gorgeous ending of thy day:
Well art thou named!—for did not HE
Derive his force and fire from thee
Whose legions tamed the world?
Flamed in his glance thy levin red,
Tuned by thy thunder was his tread,
With Rome's old flag unfurled.
I love thy hot, embrowning ray—
The fleecy cloudlets of thy sky,
The gorgeous ending of thy day:
325
Derive his force and fire from thee
Whose legions tamed the world?
Flamed in his glance thy levin red,
Tuned by thy thunder was his tread,
With Rome's old flag unfurled.
Black clouds, that interweave a pall
To hide, at noon, thy burning sun,
His star, in darkness plunged, recall,
When Glory's pinnacle was won:
Millions, at his eclipse, grew pale,
Like shuddering children when a veil
Is drawn thy brightness o'er—
But ah! unlike his timeless doom,
Thine orb emerges from the gloom—
Flashed out his star no more.
To hide, at noon, thy burning sun,
His star, in darkness plunged, recall,
When Glory's pinnacle was won:
Millions, at his eclipse, grew pale,
Like shuddering children when a veil
Is drawn thy brightness o'er—
But ah! unlike his timeless doom,
Thine orb emerges from the gloom—
Flashed out his star no more.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |