 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
326
AUGUST.
“A power is on the earth and in the air
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid.”
Bryant.
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid.”
Bryant.
Dust to the robe of August clings;
A hazy belt the mountain zones,
And gushing from the golden strings
Of Summer's harp, come mournful tones:
The meadow wears a withered look,
And the low channel of the brook
Is paved with pebbles dry—
Kissed by the purling wave no more,
They catch a gleam like silver ore,
But dull and darkened lie.
A hazy belt the mountain zones,
And gushing from the golden strings
Of Summer's harp, come mournful tones:
The meadow wears a withered look,
And the low channel of the brook
Is paved with pebbles dry—
Kissed by the purling wave no more,
They catch a gleam like silver ore,
But dull and darkened lie.
Through lanes where boughs meet overhead—
That deep into the greenwood pierce,
I often stroll, with vagrant tread,
Well shielded from the noontide fierce;
To places where a deeper rut
Yawns, by the groaning cart-wheel cut,
Beneath o'er-browing hill,
Flock butterflies, bedropped with gold,
Alighting on the black, rich mould,
Indued with moisture still.
That deep into the greenwood pierce,
I often stroll, with vagrant tread,
Well shielded from the noontide fierce;
To places where a deeper rut
Yawns, by the groaning cart-wheel cut,
Beneath o'er-browing hill,
Flock butterflies, bedropped with gold,
Alighting on the black, rich mould,
Indued with moisture still.
Fields wear a wan and sickly hue,
And farmers of the drought complain
For rain-streaks, on the faded blue
Of arching skies, they look in vain;
Thrice happy now is he who dwells
Where the great heart of Ocean swells,
And far away the land,
By winds that quit their hollow caves,
Drinking refreshment from the waves,
Is into coolness fanned.
And farmers of the drought complain
For rain-streaks, on the faded blue
Of arching skies, they look in vain;
Thrice happy now is he who dwells
Where the great heart of Ocean swells,
327
By winds that quit their hollow caves,
Drinking refreshment from the waves,
Is into coolness fanned.
Perched on the skeletons of trees,
That in the grainy stubble rear
Dry tops, that wave not in the breeze,
Wild pigeons watch a flutterer near;
Decoyed, at last, upon the ground,
They settle with a roaring sound,
And o'er them flies the net,
While sportsmen, in a house of boughs,
From hushed, recumbent posture rouse,
And weariness forget.
That in the grainy stubble rear
Dry tops, that wave not in the breeze,
Wild pigeons watch a flutterer near;
Decoyed, at last, upon the ground,
They settle with a roaring sound,
And o'er them flies the net,
While sportsmen, in a house of boughs,
From hushed, recumbent posture rouse,
And weariness forget.
Where openings in the forest hall
Give passage to the ripening blaze,
Umbrella-shaped, the mandrake tall
Its lemon-tinted fruit displays:
Bee-hunters are abroad to line
Black swarms to hollow oak or pine,
With box and amber comb;
A laughing band their baskets fill
With whortleberries on the hill,
Then seek their village home.
Give passage to the ripening blaze,
Umbrella-shaped, the mandrake tall
Its lemon-tinted fruit displays:
Bee-hunters are abroad to line
Black swarms to hollow oak or pine,
With box and amber comb;
A laughing band their baskets fill
With whortleberries on the hill,
Then seek their village home.
Green clusters of the wilding grape,
Climber of oaks! hang high in air,
And seedy fruit, of oblong shape,
The rough blackberry bushes bear;
The rank cohosh wears snowy plumes,
The peppermint obscurely blooms
In hollows dark and wet;
Red beads the wintergreen adorn,
And apples of the spreading thorn
Will turn to rubies yet.
Climber of oaks! hang high in air,
And seedy fruit, of oblong shape,
The rough blackberry bushes bear;
The rank cohosh wears snowy plumes,
The peppermint obscurely blooms
In hollows dark and wet;
Red beads the wintergreen adorn,
And apples of the spreading thorn
Will turn to rubies yet.
328
The maize-leaf in the sunshine curls,
The clover-tops are brown and dead,
And spindle fine the locust twirls
Amid the leaves above my head;
By sunny fence, or wall, are seen
Grasshoppers in gay coats of green,
Clouding the sod in flight;
Webs in the pasture closely cropped
Seem flags by elvish warriors dropped
When trooping by at night.
The clover-tops are brown and dead,
And spindle fine the locust twirls
Amid the leaves above my head;
By sunny fence, or wall, are seen
Grasshoppers in gay coats of green,
Clouding the sod in flight;
Webs in the pasture closely cropped
Seem flags by elvish warriors dropped
When trooping by at night.
At twilight I behold aloft,
While rambling with enamored eye,
A flush more delicately soft
Than coral, steal across the sky;
Low whispers from the river-vale
Go up, as if a dreary wail
The Water Spirits made,
For dying waves that faintly creep
O'er greenish stones to reach the deep,
Through which a child might wade.
While rambling with enamored eye,
A flush more delicately soft
Than coral, steal across the sky;
Low whispers from the river-vale
Go up, as if a dreary wail
The Water Spirits made,
For dying waves that faintly creep
O'er greenish stones to reach the deep,
Through which a child might wade.
Deep furrows in the bank denote
Paths traced by tributary streams,
When pines, adrift, the bridges smote,
Rending stone arch and massive beams:
Plants edge the marge, in withering groups,
And the parched willow vainly stoops
To bathe its pensile bough;
The plash of leaping fish, and stroke
Of dipping oar, that Echo woke,
Are heard no longer now.
Paths traced by tributary streams,
When pines, adrift, the bridges smote,
Rending stone arch and massive beams:
Plants edge the marge, in withering groups,
And the parched willow vainly stoops
To bathe its pensile bough;
The plash of leaping fish, and stroke
Of dipping oar, that Echo woke,
Are heard no longer now.
The music of an August eve
Unlocks the fount of pensive thought,
And breathes of Beauty taking leave
In tones with melting sweetness fraught:
Far in the mossy forest, stirred
By the low wind, are voices heard
Consorting with its gloom;
They tell of Summer on the wane,
And flowers that thirst for dew in vain
Around her opening tomb.
Unlocks the fount of pensive thought,
And breathes of Beauty taking leave
In tones with melting sweetness fraught:
329
By the low wind, are voices heard
Consorting with its gloom;
They tell of Summer on the wane,
And flowers that thirst for dew in vain
Around her opening tomb.
Lured by a swarm of buzzing flies,
That round my lamp disport at night,
Darts in the bat, with beaded eyes,
Flapping his leathern wing in flight;
In June no shafts of purer glow
Shot Dian from her silver bow,
When hushed the “babbling day,”
Than those that, in her radiant course,
Now to my vine-hung casement force
Through kindling leaves their way.
That round my lamp disport at night,
Darts in the bat, with beaded eyes,
Flapping his leathern wing in flight;
In June no shafts of purer glow
Shot Dian from her silver bow,
When hushed the “babbling day,”
Than those that, in her radiant course,
Now to my vine-hung casement force
Through kindling leaves their way.
Not long, dry month of potent heat!
Will Earth beneath thy glance grow sere—
A wight, with golden-slippered feet
And jolly face, is drawing near:
Fruits manifold, a painted crop,
Before his honeyed breath will drop,
And—transformation strange!—
Fields, for the velvet green of May,
The yellow livery of decay
Will joyfully exchange.
Will Earth beneath thy glance grow sere—
A wight, with golden-slippered feet
And jolly face, is drawing near:
Fruits manifold, a painted crop,
Before his honeyed breath will drop,
And—transformation strange!—
Fields, for the velvet green of May,
The yellow livery of decay
Will joyfully exchange.
Heart of the Poet!—trembling thing!—
When Passion builds his burning shrine,
And dreams of innocence take wing,
A melancholy drought is thine;
Founts waste away, that flung a shower
Of trembling pearls on leaf and flower,
Wrapped in a fiery shroud;
On Beauty's grave are ashes piled,
And dead the lark of Fancy wild
Drops from her bower of cloud.
When Passion builds his burning shrine,
And dreams of innocence take wing,
A melancholy drought is thine;
Founts waste away, that flung a shower
Of trembling pearls on leaf and flower,
Wrapped in a fiery shroud;
On Beauty's grave are ashes piled,
And dead the lark of Fancy wild
Drops from her bower of cloud.
330
When ends the Summer of my days,
Oh! may thy lilies, Peace, remain!
And, shrivelled by Ambition's blaze
No longer, feel Love's dropping rain!
As fresh, once more, the landscape grows,
When hence consuming August goes,
And Autumn comes to lave
With cooling drops the weary land,
Bronzed by the Tyrant's flaming wand,
And laugh wood, wind, and wave.
Oh! may thy lilies, Peace, remain!
And, shrivelled by Ambition's blaze
No longer, feel Love's dropping rain!
As fresh, once more, the landscape grows,
When hence consuming August goes,
And Autumn comes to lave
With cooling drops the weary land,
Bronzed by the Tyrant's flaming wand,
And laugh wood, wind, and wave.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |