How sweet I've wander'd bosom-deep in grain, Of ripening tinges o'er the chequer'd plain : Beans lightly scorch'd, that still preserve their green; Forming the little haycocks up and down; While o'er the face of Nature softly swept The lingering wind, mixing the brown and green So sweet that shepherds from their bowers have crept, And stood delighted musing o'er the scene. Clare. JULY. OUD is the Summer's busy song; Grow teasing with their melodies, Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day dies still as death. The busy noise of man and brute Is on a sudden lost and mute; Even the brook that leaps along Seems weary of its bubbling song, And so soft its waters creep, Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep; The cricket on its bank is dumb, The very flies forget to hum; And, save the wagon rocking round, The landscape sleeps without a sound. The breeze is stopp'd, the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that danceth now; The taller grass upon the hill, And spider's threads, are standing still; The feathers dropp'd from moor-hen's wing, Which to the water's surface cling, Are steadfast, and as heavy seem As stones beneath them in the stream; And in the oven-heated air Not one light thing is floating there, Save that to the earnest eye The restless heat seems twittering by. Refreshment o'er my soothed sense; O'er deep embattled ears of corn: Round ancient elm, with humming noise, And on each moss-wove border damp, Warton. |