Pastorals VII

SUMMER glows warm on the meadows, and speedwell, and gold-cups, anddaisiesDarken ’mid deepening masses of sorrel, and shadowy grassesShow the ripe hue to the farmer, and summon the scythe and thehay-makersDown from the village; and now, even now, the air smells of themowing,And the sharp song of the scythe whistles daily; from dawn, till thegloamingWears its cool star, sweet and welcome to all flaming faces afieldnow;Heavily weighs the hot season, and drowses the darkening foliage,Drooping with languor; the white cloud floats, but sails not, forwindlessHeaven’s blue tents it; no lark singing up in its fleecy whitevalleys;Up in its fairy white valleys, once feathered with minstrels,melodiousWith the invisible joy that wakes dawn o’er the green fields ofEngland.Summer glows warm on the meadows; then come, let us roam thro’ themgaily,Heedless of heat, and the hot-kissing sun, and the fear of darkfreckles.Never one kiss will he give on a neck, or a lily-white forehead,Chin, hand, or bosom uncovered, all panting, to take the chancecoolness,But full sure the fiery pressure leaves seal of espousal.Heed him not; come, tho’ he kiss till the soft little upper-lip losesHalf its pure whiteness; just speck’d where the curve of the rosymouth reddens.

Come, let him kiss, let him kiss, and his kisses shall make thee thesweeter.Thou art no nun, veiled and vowed; doomed to nourish a witheringpallor!City exotics beside thee would show like bleached linen at mid-day,Hung upon hedges of eglantine! Thou in the freedom of nature,Full of her beauty and wisdom, gentleness, joyance, and kindness!Come, and like bees will we gather the rich golden honey of noontide;Deep in the sweet summer meadows, border’d by hillside and river,Lined with long trenches half-hidden, where smell of whitemeadow-sweet, sweetest,Blissfully hovers—O sweetest! but pluck it not! even in the tenderestGrasp it will lose breath and wither; like many, not made for a posy.

See, the sun slopes down the meadows, where all the flowers arefalling!Falling unhymned; for the nightingale scarce ever charms the longtwilight:Mute with the cares of the nest; only known by a ‘chuck, chuck,’ anddovelikeCall of content, but the finch and the linnet and blackcap pipeloudly.Round on the western hill-side warbles the rich-billed ouzel;And the shrill throstle is filling the tangled thickening copses;Singing o’er hyacinths hid, and most honey’d of flowers, whitefield-rose.Joy thus to revel all day in the grass of our own beloved country;Revel all day, till the lark mounts at eve with his sweet‘tirra-lirra’:Trilling delightfully. See, on the river the slow-rippled surfaceShining; the slow ripple broadens in circles; the bright surfacesmoothens;Now it is flat as the leaves of the yet unseen water-lily.There dart the lives of a day, ever-varying tactics fantastic.There, by the wet-mirrored osiers, the emerald wing of the kingfisherFlashes, the fish in his beak! there the dab-chick dived, and themotionLazily undulates all thro’ the tall standing army of rushes.

Joy thus to revel all day, till the twilight turns us homeward!Till all the lingering deep-blooming splendour of sunset is over,And the one star shines mildly in mellowing hues, like a spiritSent to assure us that light never dieth, tho’ day is now buried.Saying: to-morrow, to-morrow, few hours intervening, that intervalTuned by the woodlark in heaven, to-morrow my semblance, far eastward,Heralds the day ’tis my mission eternal to seal and to prophecy.Come then, and homeward; passing down the close path of the meadows.Home like the bees stored with sweetness; each with a lark in thebosom,Trilling for ever, and oh! will yon lark ever cease to sing up there?