232 



JULY. 



SUMMER AND THE POET. 



POET. 



Oh ! golden, golden summer, 



What is it thou hast done 1 

 Thou hast chased each vernal roamer 



With thy fiercely burning sun. 



Glad was the cuckoo's hail, 

 Where may we hear it now ? 



Thou hast driven the nightingale 

 From the waving hawthorn bough. 



Thou hast shrunk the mighty river ; 



Thou hast made the small brook flee ; 

 And the light gales faintly quiver 



Through the dark and shadowy tree. 



Spring woke her tribes to bloom, 

 And on the green sward dance ; 



Thou hast smitten them to the tomb 

 With thy consuming glance. 



And now Autumn cometh on, 

 Singing 'mid shocks of corn, 



Thou hastenest to be gone, 

 As if joy might not be borne. 



