SUMMER MORNING. 33 She seems the first that does for pardon sue, And now she soars where purity doth flow, Where new-born light is with no sin allied, And, pointing with her wings, heavenward our thoughts would guide. VI. In belted gold the bees, with “ merry march," Through flowery towns go sounding on their way: They pass the red-streaked woodbine's sun-stained arch, And onward glide through streets of sheeted May, Nor till they reach the summer-roses stay, Where maiden-buds are wrapt in dewy dreams, Drowsy through breathing back the new-mown hay, That rolls its fragrance o'er the fringèd streams— Mirrors in which the Sun now decks his quivering beams. VII. Uprise the lambs, fresh from their flowery slumber Those emblems of His love will wave till time shall cease. VIII. On the far sky leans the old ruined mill, Just where the dusty gold streams through the heavy dew: IX. And there the hidden river lingering dreams, So blend their fleeces with the misty haze, They look like clouds shook from the unsunned sky, Ere morning o'er the eastern hills did blaze :The vision fades as they move farther on to graze. X. A checkered light streams in between the leaves, Down the low vale, edgèd with fir-trees dun. Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloistered nook. SUMMER MORNING. 35 XI. What varied colors o'er the landscape play! XII. A cottage girl trips by with side-long look, Steadying the little basket on her head; And where a plank bridges the narrow brook She stops to see her fair form shadowèd. The stream reflects her cloak of russet red; Below she sees the trees and deep-blue sky, The flowers which downward look in that clear bed, The very birds which o'er its brightness fly: She parts her loose brown hair, then wondering passes by. XIII. Now other forms move o'er the footpaths brown In twos and threes; for it is Market day: Beyond those hills stretches a little town, And thitherward the rustics bend their way, Crossing the scene in blue, and red, and gray; Now by green hedge-rows, now by oak-trees old, As they by stile or thatched cottage stray. Peep through the rounded hand, and you'll behold Such gems as Morland drew, in frames of sunny gold. XIV. A laden ass, a maid with wicker maun', Then does his gray old tilted cart appear, XV. They come from still green nooks, woods old and hoary, The silent work of many a summer night, Ere those tall trees attained their giant glory, Or their dark tops did tower that cloudy height: They come from spots which the gray hawthorns light, Where stream-kissed willows make a silver shiver. For years their steps have worn those footpaths bright Which wind along the fields and by the river, That makes a murmuring sound, a "ribble-bibble" ever. XVI. A troop of soldiers pass with stately pace- Through yon white blinds peeps many a lovely face, Dreams how she'll dance that tune 'mong Summer's sweetest roses. SUMMER MORNING. 37 XVII. So let her dream, even as beauty should! Let the white plumes athwart her slumbers sway! XVIII. How sweet those rural sounds float by the hill! There's music in the church-clock's measured sound. XIX. "Cuckoo! cuckoo !" ah! well I know thy note, “Cuckoo !" it is the grave-not thou-that makes me sad. |