JULY. 



SUMMER. 



And dost thou of me complain ? 



Thou, who with dreamy eyes, 

 In the forest moss hast lain, 



Praising my silvery skies 1 



Thou, who didst deem divine, 



The shrill cicada's tune, 

 When the odours of the pine 



Gushed through the woods at noon 1 



I have run my fervid race, 



I have wrought my task once more ; 

 I have filled each fruitful place 



With a plenty that runs o'er. 



There is treasure in the garner, 



There is honey with the bee ; 

 And oh ! thou thankless scorner, 



There's a parting boon for thee ! 



Soon as in misty sadness, 



Sere Autumn yields her reign, 

 Winter with stormy madness 



Shall chase thee from the plain. 



Then shall these scenes elysian 



Bright in thy spirit burn, 

 And each summer thought and vision 



Be thine till I return. 



W. H. 



233 



