 | Poems |  |
104
JUNE.
Short is the reign of night, and almost blends
The evening twilight with the morning dawn.
Mild hour of dawn! thy wide-spread solitude,
And placid stillness, sooth even misery's sigh:
Deep the distress that cannot feel thy charm!—
As yet the thrush roosts on the bloomy spray,
With head beneath his dew-besprinkled wing,
When, roused by my lone tread, he lightly shakes
His ruffling plumes, and chaunts the untaught note,
Soon followed by the woodland choir, warbling
Melodiously the oft-repeated song,
Till noon-tide pour the torpor-shedding ray.
Then is the hour to seek the sylvan bank
Of lonely stream, remote from human haunt;
To mark the wild bee voyaging, deep-toned,
Low weighing down each floweret's tender stalk;
To list the grashopper's hoarse creaking chirp;
And then to let excursive fancy fly
To scenes, where roaring cannon drown the straining voice,
And fierce gesticulation takes the place
Of useless words. May be some Alpine brook,
That served to part two neighbouring shepherds' flocks,
Is now the limit of two hostile camps.
Weak limit! to be filled, ere evening star,
With heaps of slain: Far down thy rocky course,
The midnight wolf, lapping the gore-stained flood,
Gluts his keen thirst, and oft, and oft returns,
Unsated, to the purple, tepid stream.
The evening twilight with the morning dawn.
Mild hour of dawn! thy wide-spread solitude,
And placid stillness, sooth even misery's sigh:
Deep the distress that cannot feel thy charm!—
As yet the thrush roosts on the bloomy spray,
With head beneath his dew-besprinkled wing,
When, roused by my lone tread, he lightly shakes
His ruffling plumes, and chaunts the untaught note,
Soon followed by the woodland choir, warbling
Melodiously the oft-repeated song,
Till noon-tide pour the torpor-shedding ray.
Then is the hour to seek the sylvan bank
Of lonely stream, remote from human haunt;
To mark the wild bee voyaging, deep-toned,
105
To list the grashopper's hoarse creaking chirp;
And then to let excursive fancy fly
To scenes, where roaring cannon drown the straining voice,
And fierce gesticulation takes the place
Of useless words. May be some Alpine brook,
That served to part two neighbouring shepherds' flocks,
Is now the limit of two hostile camps.
Weak limit! to be filled, ere evening star,
With heaps of slain: Far down thy rocky course,
The midnight wolf, lapping the gore-stained flood,
Gluts his keen thirst, and oft, and oft returns,
Unsated, to the purple, tepid stream.
But let me fly such scenes, which, even when feigned,
Distress. To Scotia's peaceful glens I turn,
And rest my eyes upon her waving fields,
Where now the scythe lays low the mingled flowers.
Ah, spare, thou pitying swain! a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest; so shall no new-come lord—
To ope a vista to some distant spire—
Thy cottage raze; but, when the toilsome day
Is done, still shall the turf-laid seat invite
Thy weary limbs; there peace and health shall bless
Thy frugal fare, served by the unhired hand,
That seeks no wages save a parent's smile.
Thus glides the eve, while round the strawy roof
Is heard the bat's wing in the deep-hushed air,
And from the little field the corncraik's harsh,
Yet not unpleasing note, the stillness breaks,
All the night long, till day-spring wake the lark.
Distress. To Scotia's peaceful glens I turn,
And rest my eyes upon her waving fields,
Where now the scythe lays low the mingled flowers.
Ah, spare, thou pitying swain! a ridge-breadth round
The partridge nest; so shall no new-come lord—
To ope a vista to some distant spire—
Thy cottage raze; but, when the toilsome day
Is done, still shall the turf-laid seat invite
Thy weary limbs; there peace and health shall bless
Thy frugal fare, served by the unhired hand,
That seeks no wages save a parent's smile.
106
Is heard the bat's wing in the deep-hushed air,
And from the little field the corncraik's harsh,
Yet not unpleasing note, the stillness breaks,
All the night long, till day-spring wake the lark.
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