 | Poems |  |
107
JULY.
Slow move the sultry hours. O, for the shield
Of darkening boughs, or hollow rock grotesque!
Of darkening boughs, or hollow rock grotesque!
The pool transparent to its pebbly bed,
With here and there a slowly gliding trout,
Invites the throbbing, half reluctant, breast
To plunge: The dash re-echoes from the rocks,
And smooth, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds,
Now, with extended arms, rowing his way;
And now, with sunward face, he floating lies;
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand:
Blythe days of jocund youth, now almost flown!
Meantime, far up the windings of the stream,
Where birken witchknots o'er the channel meet,
The sportive shriek, shrill, mingled with the laugh,
The bushes hung with beauty's white attire,
Tempt, yet forbid, the intrusive eye's approach.
With here and there a slowly gliding trout,
Invites the throbbing, half reluctant, breast
To plunge: The dash re-echoes from the rocks,
And smooth, in sinuous course, the swimmer winds,
Now, with extended arms, rowing his way;
And now, with sunward face, he floating lies;
Till, blinded by the dazzling beam, he turns,
Then to the bottom dives, emerging soon
With stone, as trophy, in his waving hand:
Blythe days of jocund youth, now almost flown!
Meantime, far up the windings of the stream,
Where birken witchknots o'er the channel meet,
The sportive shriek, shrill, mingled with the laugh,
108
Tempt, yet forbid, the intrusive eye's approach.
Unhappy he, who, in this season, pent
Within the darksome gloom of city lane,
Pines for the flowery paths, and woody shades,
From which the love of lucre, or of power,
Enticed his youthful steps. In vain he turns
The rich descriptive page of Thomson's muse,
And strives to fancy that the lovely scenes
Are present: So the hand of childhood tries
To grasp the pictured bunch of fruit, or flowers,
But, disappointed, feels the canvas smooth:
So the caged lark, upon a withering turf,
Flutters from side to side, with quivering wings,
As if in act of mounting to the skies.
Within the darksome gloom of city lane,
Pines for the flowery paths, and woody shades,
From which the love of lucre, or of power,
Enticed his youthful steps. In vain he turns
The rich descriptive page of Thomson's muse,
And strives to fancy that the lovely scenes
Are present: So the hand of childhood tries
To grasp the pictured bunch of fruit, or flowers,
But, disappointed, feels the canvas smooth:
So the caged lark, upon a withering turf,
Flutters from side to side, with quivering wings,
As if in act of mounting to the skies.
At noontide hour, from school, the little throng
Rush gaily, sporting o'er the enamelled mead.
Some strive to catch the bloom-perched butterfly;
And if they miss his mealy wings, the flower,
From which he flies, the disappointment sooths.
Others, so pale in look, in tattered garb,
Motley, with half-spun threads and cotton flakes,
Trudge, drooping, to the many-storied pile,
Where thousand spindles whirling stun the ear,
Confused: There, prisoned close, they wretched moil.
Sweet age, perverted from its proper end!
When childhood toils, the field should be the scene,—
To tend the sheep, or homeward drive the herd
Or, from the corn-ridge, scare the pilfering rooks,
Or to the mowers bear the milky pail.
But, Commerce, Commerce, Manufactures, still
Weary the ear; health, morals, all must yield
To pamper the monopolising few,
To make a wealthy, but a wretched state.
Blest be the generous band, that would restore
To honour due the long-neglected plough!
From it expect peace, plenty, virtue, health:
Compare with it, Britannia, all thine isles
Beyond the Atlantic wave! thy trade! thy ships
Deep-fraught with blood!
Rush gaily, sporting o'er the enamelled mead.
Some strive to catch the bloom-perched butterfly;
And if they miss his mealy wings, the flower,
From which he flies, the disappointment sooths.
Others, so pale in look, in tattered garb,
Motley, with half-spun threads and cotton flakes,
Trudge, drooping, to the many-storied pile,
Where thousand spindles whirling stun the ear,
Confused: There, prisoned close, they wretched moil.
109
When childhood toils, the field should be the scene,—
To tend the sheep, or homeward drive the herd
Or, from the corn-ridge, scare the pilfering rooks,
Or to the mowers bear the milky pail.
But, Commerce, Commerce, Manufactures, still
Weary the ear; health, morals, all must yield
To pamper the monopolising few,
To make a wealthy, but a wretched state.
Blest be the generous band, that would restore
To honour due the long-neglected plough!
From it expect peace, plenty, virtue, health:
Compare with it, Britannia, all thine isles
Beyond the Atlantic wave! thy trade! thy ships
Deep-fraught with blood!
But let me quit such themes! and, peaceful, roam
The winding glen, where now the wild-rose pale
And garish broom, strew, with their fading flowers,
The narrow greenwood path. To me more sweet
The greenwood path, half hid, 'neath brake and briar,
Than pebbled walks so trim; more dear to me
The daisied plat, before the cottage door,
Than waveless sea of widely spreading lawn,
'Mid which some insulated mansion towers,
Spurning the humble dwellings from its proud domain.
The winding glen, where now the wild-rose pale
And garish broom, strew, with their fading flowers,
The narrow greenwood path. To me more sweet
The greenwood path, half hid, 'neath brake and briar,
Than pebbled walks so trim; more dear to me
The daisied plat, before the cottage door,
Than waveless sea of widely spreading lawn,
'Mid which some insulated mansion towers,
Spurning the humble dwellings from its proud domain.
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