Poems, chiefly pastoral By John Cunningham. The second edition. With the Addition of several pastorals and other pieces |
 |
DAY:
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | Poems, chiefly pastoral |  |
1
DAY:
A PASTORAL.
------ Carpe diem.
Hor.
Hor.
MORNING.
I
In the barn the tenant Cock,Close to partlet perch'd on high,
Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!)
Jocund that the morning's nigh.
II
Swiftly from the mountain's brow,Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire:
And the peeping sun-beam, now,
Paints with gold the village spire.
2
III
Philomel forsakes the thorn,Plaintive where she prates at night;
And the Lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.
IV
From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,See the chatt'ring Swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.
V
Now the pine-tree's waving topGently greets the morning gale:
Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Daisies, in the dewey dale.
VI
From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd,(Restless 'till her task be done)
Now the busy bee's employ'd
Sipping dew before the sun.
VII
Trickling through the crevic'd rock,Where the limpid stream distills,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.
3
VIII
Colin, for the promis'd corn(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)
Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn,
Boldly sounding, drown his pipe.
IX
Sweet,—O sweet, the warbling throng,On the white emblossom'd spray!
Nature's universal song
Echoes to the rising day.
4
NOON.
X
Fervid on the glitt'ring flood,Now the noon-tide radiance glows:
Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rose.
XI
By the brook the shepherd dines;From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd, by the branching pines,
Pendent o'er his grassy seat.
XII
Now the flock forsakes the glade,Where, uncheck'd, the sun-beams fall;
Sure to find a pleasing shade
By the ivy'd abby wall.
XIII
Echo in her airy round,O'er the river, rock and hill,
Cannot catch a single sound,
Save the clack of yonder mill.
5
XIV
Cattle court the zephirs bland,Where the streamlet wanders cool;
Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.
XV
But from mountain, dell, or stream,Not a flutt'ring zephir springs:
Fearful lest the noon-tide beam
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.
XVI
Not a leaf has leave to stir,Nature's lull'd—serene—and still!
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.
XVII
Languid is the landscape round,'Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises ev'ry fainting flower.
XVIII
Now the hill—the hedge—is green,Now the warblers' throats in tune!
Blithsome is the verdant scene,
Brighten'd by the beams of Noon!
6
EVENING.
XIX
O'er the heath the heifer straysFree;—(the furrow'd task is done)
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting sun.
XX
Now he hides behind the hill,Sinking from a golden sky:
Can the pencil's mimic skill,
Copy the refulgent dye?
XXI
Trudging as the plowmen go,(To the smoaking hamlet bound)
Giant-like their shadows grow,
Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.
XXII
Where the rising forest spreads,Shelter for the lordly dome!
To their high-built airy beds,
See the rooks returning home!
7
XXIII
As the Lark with vary'd tune,Carrols to the evening loud;
Mark the mild resplendent moon,
Breaking through a parted cloud!
XXIV
Now the hermit Howlet peepsFrom the barn, or twisted brake:
And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.
XXV
As the Trout in speckled pride,Playful from its bosom springs;
To the banks, a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.
XXVI
Tripping through the silken grass,O'er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rose-complexion'd lass,
With her well-pois'd milking-pail.
XXVII
Linnets, with unnumber'd notes,And the Cuckow bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats,
Bid the setting sun adieu.
| Poems, chiefly pastoral | |