University of Virginia Library

A JUNE DAY.

Oh! hast thou ever wish'd to know
When most this varying world below
Is like the changeless heaven above,
In beauty, pleasure, peace, and love?
Haste thee, in summer's youthful noon,
The green, the joyous month of June,
Far from the sultry streeted town,
And lay thee in the evening down
In some sweet hamlet's white-wall'd cot,
Round which the pear and apricot
Twine their green arms, and sparrows watch
From their snug peep-holes in the thatch;
And the light latticed porch embower
The creeper and the passion-flower.
The morning bursts—all heaven has shed
Its light and music round thy bed:
The birds are busy in the eaves;
The sun-light dances on the leaves
That tremble round the window's rim;
And to and fro the shadows skim
Of busy wings without, that ply
In quest of larva, worm, or fly.
Throw now the sunny casement wide,
In flows the warm and odorous tide
From dew-besprinkled shrub and flower,
That blossom round that sylvan bower.
But oh! thou world of light and glee!
What soul can ever picture thee?
As strays the fond enthusiast eye
Round the green earth and flaming sky,
From every meadow, bush, and tree,
Rings morning's loudest melody.
Hark to the cuckoo's wand'ring notes!
Hark to the lark, whose music floats
Through the wide air in strains that tell,
This is a world where gods might dwell!
The dew yet lingers on the grass,
As down the long green lane you pass,
Where, o'er the hawthorn's snowy wreaths,
The woodbine's honied perfume breathes;
And the wild rose's arching spray
Flaunts to the breeze above your way.
What palace proud—what city hall,
Can match these verdant boughs that fall,
Vaulting o'er banks of flowers, that glow
In hues of crimson, gold, and snow?
Where, midst the wild-brier's emerald leaves,
Her gauze-like nest the white-throat weaves.
What sense of joy hath ever stole
From song, or harp, into thy soul,
Like this, from young birds all unseen,
Chirping amongst the foliage green?
Or, new to life, on wings untried,
Fluttering from bushes by your side;
Or gazing at you unconcern'd,
Their foes, their perils yet unlearn'd;
With yellow bills, and plumage fair,
And down that trembles to the air.
The gale has woke, and, like a soul,
Sent life and beauty through the whole.
One living, restless radiance gleams,
From quivering trees, and flowers, and streams.
Mark! how its bright and silvery sheen
Gilds the tall grass, and corn-fields green:
Wave after wave, the gleaming tide
Of light sweeps o'er their surface wide;
And the quick, dancing splendour plays,
As o'er the sea the summer's blaze.
But hush'd is gale, and hush'd is tune,
As pours the sun the power of noon:
And through the bright and basking scene
No sound is heard, no motion seen,
But the bold sparrow's chirping loud,
And merry minstrel of the cloud;
And the keen buzzing of the fly,
And o'er the heath the pewit's cry.
Who has not loved, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You mark'd a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide?
To hear the buzzard whimp'ring shrill,
Hovering above you high and still?
The twittering of the bird that dwells
Amongst the heath's delicious bells?
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade,
Insects in green and gold array'd,
The sun's gay tribes have lightly stray'd;
And sweeter sound their humming wings
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings.
Who has not dream'd a world of bliss,
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days?
Whilst all around them seem'd to be
Just as in joyous infancy.
There, still the green flag quivering plays,
The broad-sword of those fairy days;
There, still the water scorpions peep,
Then downward dart into the deep;
There, still the brook the alders greet,
Loosestrife, and foam-like meadow-sweet;
The water-flies there fleetly race
O'er the stream's smooth unruffled face;
There come, as then, the plunging cows,
Rustling amongst the hazel boughs;
And there, as then, they strive to save
Some struggling insect from the wave,
That long has strove and stretch'd in vain
Some floating leaf's safe ark to gain,
That, ever near, excites its toils,
But touch'd—and lo!—it still recoils,
As tempting hope our efforts foils.
But noon's subduing heat and glare
Have melted to a milder air;
And oh! there comes, so calm and boon,
The eve—the Paradise of June.
Past is the glare—but there is still
A light and glow on dale and hill,
Vivid, yet mild and full of grace,
Shining out like an angel's face.
Freed from the sultry thrall of day,
The glad eye revels far away;
All round is bright—and you may see
Green hill and river, tower and tree,
One wide, fair scene of beauteous rest,
Brilliant and sweet, and calm and blest.
All there is peace, and you may hear
Each soften'd sound distinct and clear:
The wood-gate's clap, the peasant's lay,
The low of herds, the mastiff's bay,
And the rich blackbird's strains, that swell
Each sunset from the neighbouring dell.
Who has not wander'd to inhale
Fragrance, and dew, and living gale,
As the far wood's luxuriant waves
Of green the sun's last radiance laves;
And villagers sit at their doors
Beneath the towering sycamores;
And hum the chaffer's ruddy wings?
And sweet are lovers' loiterings
On by the park pales' silvery moss,
Where listening hares the footpath cross;
And partridges, met in the glen,
Are racing swiftly back again;
And from the far heath, drear and still,
Pipes the lone curlew, wild and shrill;
And darker glooms the forest glade;
And heaven's pale gleams yet fainter fade;
Till silence only hears awake
The hoarse, quaint whisperings of the crake.