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138
FRAGMENT
FROM AN EPISTLE WRITTEN WHEN THE THERMOMETER STOOD AT 98° IN THE SHADE.
Oh for the temperate airs that blowUpon that darling of the sea,
Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow,
For three days holds supremacy;
But ever-varying skies contend
The blessings of all climes to lend,
To make that tiny wave-rocked isle,
In never-fading beauty smile.
England, O England! for the breeze
That slowly stirs thy forest trees!
Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains,
Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains,
Thy lawny uplands, where the shadow
Of many a giant oak is sleeping;
The tangled copse, the sunny meadow,
Through which the summer rills run weeping.
O land of flowers! while sinking here
Beneath the dog-star of the West,
The music of the waves I hear
That cradle thee upon their breast.
139
The wild-winged breezes of the sea,
While from thy smiling, summer sky,
The ripening sun looks tenderly.
And thou—to whom through all this heat
My parboiled thoughts still fondly turn,
Oh in what “shady blest retreat”
Art thou ensconced, while here I burn?
Across the lawn, in the deep glade,
Where hand in hand we oft have strayed,
Or communed sweetly, side by side,
Hear'st thou the chiming ocean tide,
As gently on the pebbly beach
It lays its head, then ebbs away,
Or round the rocks, with nearer reach,
Throws up a cloud of silvery spray?
Or to the firry woods, that shed
Their spicy odours to the sun,
Goest thou with meditative tread,
Thinking of all things that are done
Beneath the sky?—a great, big thought,
Of which I know you're very fond.
For me, my mind is solely wrought
To this one wish:—Oh, in a pond
Would I were over head and ears!
(Of a cold ducking I've no fears)
Or anywhere, where I am not;
For, bless the heat! it is too hot!
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