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The Seasons: Summer

by James Thomson

From brightening fields of ether fair-disclos'd,

Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes,

In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth:

He comes, attended by the sultry Hours

And ever-fanning Breezes, on his way;

While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring

Averts her blushful face; and earth and skies,

All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.

Hence, let me haste into the mid-wood shade,

Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom

And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink

Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak

Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large,

And sing the glories of the circling year.

Come, Inspiration! from thy hermit-seat,

By mortal seldom found: may Fancy dare,

From thy fix'd serious eye, and raptur'd glance

Shot on surrounding heaven, to steal one look

Creative of the poet, every power

Exalting to an ecstasy of soul.

...

Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead;

The rustic youth, brown with meridian toil,

Healthful and strong; full as the summer-rose

Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid,

Half-naked, swelling on the sight, and all

Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek.

Even stooping age is here; and infant-hands

Trail the long rake, or with the fragrant load

O'ercharg'd, amid the kind oppression roll.

Wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row

Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,

They spread the breathing harvest to the sun

That throws refreshful round a rural smell;

Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground,

And drive the dusky wave along the mead,

The russet hay-cock rises thick behind,

In order gay: while, heard from dale to dale,

Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice

Of happy labour, love, and social glee.

Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band,

They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog

Compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook

Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high,

And that fair-spreading in a pebbled shore.

Urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil,

The clamour much of men, and boys, and dogs,

Ere the soft, fearful people to the flood

Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain,

On some impatient seizing, hurls them in:

Embolden'd then, nor hesitating more,

Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave,

And, panting, labour to the farther shore.

Repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece

Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt

The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream;

Heavy, and dripping, to the breezy brow

Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread

Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray,

Inly disturb'd, and wondering what this wild

Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints

The country fill; and, toss'd from rock to rock,

Incessant bleatings run around the hills.

At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks

Are in the wattled pen innumerous press'd,

Head above head; and, rang'd in lusty rows,

The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears.

The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores,

With all her gay-dress'd maids attending round.

One, chief, in gracious dignity enthron'd,

Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays

Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king;

While the glad circle round them yield their souls

To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.

Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace:

Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some,

Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side

To stamp his master's cipher ready stand;

Others the unwilling wether drag along;

And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy

Holds by the twisted horns th' indignant ram.

...

'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun

Darts on the head direct his forceful rays.

O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye

Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all,

From pole to pole, is undistinguish'd blaze.

In vain the sight, dejected to the ground,

Stoops for relief; thence hot-ascending streams

And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root

Of vegetation parch'd, the cleaving fields

And slippery lawn an arid hue disclose,

Blast fancy's blooms, and wither even the soul.

Echo no more returns the cheerful sound

Of sharpening scythe: the mower, sinking, heaps

O'er him the humid hay, with flowers perfum'd;

And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard

Through the dumb mead. Distressful nature pants;

The very streams look languid from afar;

Or, through th' unshelter'd glade, impatient, seem

To hurl into the covert of the grove.

Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail!

Ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks!

Ye ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep!

Delicious in your shelter to the soul,

As to the hunted hart the sallying spring,

Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides

Laves, as he floats along the herbag'd brink.

Cool, through the nerves, your pleasing comfort glides;

The heart beats glad; the fresh-expanded eye

And ear resume their watch; the sinews knit;

And life shoots swift through all the lighten'd limbs.

Around the adjoining brook that purls along

The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock,

Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool,

Now starting to a sudden stream, and now

Gently diffus'd into a limpid plain,

A various group the herds and flocks compose,

Rural confusion! On the grassy bank

Some ruminating lie; while others stand

Half in the flood, and, often bending, sip

The circling surface. In the middle droops

The strong laborious ox, of honest front,

Which, incompos'd, he shakes; and from his sides

The troublous insects lashes with his tail,

Returning still. Amid his subjects safe,

Slumbers the monarch-swain; his careless arm

Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustain'd:

Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands fill'd;

There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.