Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub

NOON.

Now comes the calm luxurious hour of rest,
By all the panting sons of labour blest;
Sweet at this burning season, doubly sweet
To all who mingle in its toil and heat.

[graphic]

The humming beech-tree shadow o'er him cast,
The sun-burnt hedger sits at his repast,
Like monarch at a feast; with relish rare
He banquets on his poor, unseasoned fare.

The lambs that sported, and the ewes that fed, The morning long, now seek the rustic shed,

Or by the shady margin of the wood
They rest, and o'er their past regalement brood.

In fine, all creatures of the earth and air,
Oppressed and panting, to the shade repair,
And feel it all their luxury to shun
The torrid splendour of the lofty sun.

Beside the secret and dark-shaded bank,
With dewy flowers and undried verdure rank,
The pensive stripling seeks the waters cool,
And plunges, swan-like, in the quiet pool.

The aged shepherd, on the mountain side
Stretched thoughtfully, beholds a prospect wide;
A stunted thorn its shadow o'er him flings,
And at his feet a bubbling fountain springs.

There doth the rustic sage untroubled lie,
And ponder much untaught philosophy;
With look of silent rapture he surveys
The pictured valley lying in a blaze.

By Nature's best inheritance 'tis his;
Thence he derives a heritage of bliss.
Though but the master of an humble fold,
His the delight, another's is the gold.

AFTERNOON-NIGHT.

But now the woodman, lively after rest,
Resumes his toil upon the mountain's breast,
And with a blithesome, oft-repeated tune,
Beguiles the long and sunny afternoon.

By the wild brook, among its rushy bowers,

The little village maidens gather flowers.

To their charmed sense, the beauteous buds they hold Are dearer far than fairy gems of gold.

Without a tear-yet grief too soon will come-
They sport, nor is their merry pastime dumb;-
So lovely in their fleeting lives, they seem
Like water-lilies floating down a stream.

These sportive children of the laughing eye,
And brow serene as the unclouded sky,
Run gracefully, and shout, and look behind,
Their bright locks playing in the summer wind.

But tired with shouting sport, and mirth's excess,
They fling themselves, in careless loveliness,
Upon the green sward, and with half-shut eyes,
They sing old rhymes and rural melodies.

So may we deem, in heaven's serener clime,
That tender children, snatched away from time,
Enjoy eternity in blooming bowers,

And sing God's glory amid streams and flowers.

But lo! a darkening cloud of softest rain,
Falls, like a pearly veil, upon the plain.
The glittering fields rejoice in greenest hue,
And all the air is moistened with a dew.

With lovely strength looks forth the setting sun,
As one whose glorious race is nearly run;
The clouds around him, by his splendour riven,
Glow like the golden battlements of heaven.

A universal song is in the woods,

A pleasant voice comes from the sylvan floods;
The evening breeze is odorous and bland,
And starry Night beholds a quiet land.

Source of our life, and Giver of our days!
Let me, at morn and eve, thy glory praise;
And when these earthly years have passed away,
May I enjoy an endless Summer day.

[merged small][graphic]

NOON.

HE sun is swiftly mounted high;
It glitters in the southern sky;
Its beams with force and glory beat,
And fruitful earth is filled with heat.

Father, also, with thy fire

Warm the cold and dead desire,

And make the sacred love of thee
Within my soul, a sun to me;
Let it shine so fairly bright,

That nothing else be took for light;

That worldly charms be seen to fade,

And in its lustre find a shade.

Let it strongly shine within,

To scatter all the clouds of sin,

That drive, when gusts of passion rise,
And intercept it from our eyes.

Let its glory more than vie

With the sun that lights the sky;

Let it swiftly mount in air,

Mount with that, and leave it there,
And soar, with more aspiring flight,
To realms of everlasting light.
Thus, while here I'm forced to be,
I daily wish to live with thee,
And feel that union which thy love
Will, after death, complete above.
From my soul I send my prayer ;
Great Creator, bow thine ear:
Thou, for whose propitious sway
The world was taught to see the day;

« НазадПродовжити »