208 JULY. 



ripening corn, and towards the end of it corn har- 

 vest commences. 



SUMMER AND THE POET. 



POET. 



Oh ! golden, golden Summer, 



What is it thou hast done ? 

 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 



Tliraugh the dark and shadowy tree. 



Spring woke her tribes to bloom, 

 And on the greensward dance ; 



Thou hast smitten them to the tomb 

 With thy consuming glance. 



And now Autumn cometh on, 

 Singing 'midst shocks of corn, 



Thou hastenest to be gone, 

 As if joy might not be borne. 



SUMMER. 



And dost thou of me complain ? 



Thou, who with dreamy eyes. 

 In the forest moss hast lain, 



Praising my silvery skies ? 



