by P.
Originally published in The Literary Chronicle and Weekly Review (J. Sidebetmem) vol.1 #8 (10 Jul 1819).
When the lark rises from the poppied fields
Of undulating corn, and a grey sky
Receives the sun to give a new-day's birth
To eyelids and melodious breath; to wreaths
Of green leaves interlaced with blossoms, fruits,
And genial dews;—and when the cuckoo seeks
The sparrow's nest, and idly drives her hence,
Like Folly, with her tautologic notes:
When we can see, all round the earth's green tops,
Clouds shaped like rocks of silver and of gold,
And lakes of ether swimming to the air,—
And shadows creeping up and down the hills,
Subservient to reflection, then 'tis Summer.
And the pure spirit, who wanders 'mid the works
Of beautiful creation, feels a thrill
Or deep enchantment working, wheresoe'er
The glance of reason shoots, and taught by love,
Adores the wisdom of the great Supreme,
In the delicious symmetries of leaves;
As the vast boundaries of th' ethereal skies,
With their inimitable hues and aspects.
And when, by instinct, insects hasten home
T' escape the vengeance of a storm, and farmers,
Like heroes in a battle, their peasantry
Drive to the quick securing of the hay;
And the white drops of rain smoke 'midst the light
Of dangerous electricity, and sounds
Roll round the regions of the upper worlds,
We hail the bridge of fancy striding heaven,
In ray-form'd architecture, and adore
The Architect, exclaiming, hope, faith, truth,
And seasons are in annual unison,—
Then, lovely Summer, thou art crown'd abroad:
Hence our unceasing pæans shew that love
Which gratitude and duty breathe; the sweet
Employment overcomes our care; an angel's
Beatitude is our eternity.
Islington Green.