158 SUMMER. 



Oh pleasant land of idlesse ! 



Jollity bides not 'neath the trees, 

 But thought, that roams from folly free, 

 Through the pure world of poetry, 



Puts on her strength in scenes like these ! 



And sweet it is by lonely meres 



To sit, with heart and soul awake, 

 Where water-lilies lie afloat, 

 Each anchored like a fairy boat 

 Amid some fabled elfin lake : 



To see the birds flit to and fro 



Along the dark-green reedy edge ; 



Or fish leap up to catch the fly ; 



Or list the viewless wind pass by, 

 Leaving its voice amid the sedge. 



The green and breezy hills away ! 



My heart is light, my foot is free, 

 And, resting on the topmost peak, 

 The freshening gale shall fan my cheek, 



The hills were ever dear to me ! 



I stand upon the mountain's brow, 

 A monarch in this region wide ; 



I and the gray -faced mountain-sheep 



The solitary station keep, 



As living thing were none beside. 



'Tis summer eve, a gentle hour ; 



The west is rich in sombre sheen ; 

 And 'mid the garden's leafy trees, 

 Springs up a cool refreshing breeze, 



And the pale stars are faintly seen. 



The white owl with his downy wings 

 And hooded head goes slowly by ; 



The hawk-moth sits upon the flowers ; 



And through the silent evening hours 

 The little brooks make melody. 



