XI.

=Summer.=

SAXON SONG OF SUMMER.

MODERN VERSION.

Summer is a coming in. Loud sing, cuckoo; Groweth seed, and bloweth mead, And springeth the wood new. Sing, cuckoo, cuckoo!

Ewe bleateth after lamb; Loweth calf after cow; Bullock starteth, buck departeth; Merry sing, cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; Well singeth the cuckoo— Sing ever, stop never, Cuckoo, cuckoo; Sing, cuckoo! _Anonymous, about 1250_

LINES

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON OF KING ALFRED.

When the sun Clearest shines Serenest in the heaven, Quickly are obscured Over the earth All other stars; Because their brightness is not Brightness at all Compared with The sun’s light. When mild blows The southwestern wind Under the clouds, Then quickly grow The flowers of the field, Joyful that they may. But the stark storm, When it comes strong From north and east, It quickly takes away The beauty of the rose. And also the northern storm, Constrained by necessity, That it is strongly agitated, Lashes the spacious sea Against the shore. Alas! that our earth Aught of permanent Work in the world Does not ever remain! REV. S. FOX’S _version, 800_.

THE SUMMER MONTHS.

They come! the merry summer months of beauty, love, and flowers; They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad, fling work and care aside; Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide; Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal trees, See through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft; its velvet touch is grateful to the hand, And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland; The daisy and the butter-cup are nodding courteously; It stirs their blood with kindest love to bless and welcome thee. And mark how with thine own thin locks, they now are silvery gray— That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering “Be gay!”

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody. Thou see’st their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold, And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this earth, Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound—from yonder wood it came; The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name. Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind, Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western winds. Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again—his notes are void of art, But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me, To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree! To suck once more in every breath, their little souls away, And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth’s bright summer day; When rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy— Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

I’m sadder now—I have had cause; but O I’m proud to think That each pure joy-fount loved of yore I yet delight to drink; Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky, Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. When summer’s loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, I’ll bear indeed life’s heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 1797–1835.

VIRTUE.

Sweet day! so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky; The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; Thy root is ever in the grave, And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses— A box where sweets compacted lie— My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season’d timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. GEORGE HERBERT, 1593–1632.

FROM THE “HOLY DYING.”

But as when the sun approaches toward the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven, and sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and calls up the lark to matins, and by-and-by gilds the fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns—like those which decked the brows of Moses, when he was forced to wear a vail, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while a man tells the story, the sun gets up higher till he shows a fair face and full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets quickly: so is a man’s reason and his life.

BISHOP JEREMY TAYLOR.

SIMILE.

As when the cheerful sun elamping wide, Glads all the world with his uprising ray, And woos the widowed earth afresh to pride, And paints her bosom with the flowery May— His silent sister steals him quite way. Wrapp’d in a sable cloud, from mortal eyes The hasty stars at noon begin to rise, And headlong to his early roost the sparrow flies.

But soon as he again disshadowed is, Restoring the blind world his blemish’d sight— As though another world were newly his; The cozened birds busily take their flight, And wonder at the shortness of the night, So Mercy once again herself displays, Out from her sister’s cloud, and open lays Those sunshine looks, whose beams would dim a thousand days. GILES FLETCHER.

THE SUN

But yonder comes the powerful King of Day, Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain’s brow, Illum’d with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all, Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air, He looks in boundless majesty abroad, And sheds the shining day, that burnish’d plays On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams, High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, light! Of all material beings, first and best! Efflux divine! Nature’s resplendent robe! Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapp’d In unessential gloom; and thou, O Sun, Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen Shines out thy Maker! may I sing of thee?

* * * * *

The vegetable world is also thine, Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precede That waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain, Annual, along the bright ecliptic road, In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime. Meantime th’ expecting nations, circled gay With all the various tribes of foodful earth, Implore thy bounty, or send grateful up A common hymn; while 'round thy beaming car, High seen, the seasons lead in sprightly dance. Harmonious limit; the rosy-finger’d hours, The zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains, Of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews, And, softened into joy, the surly storms. Here, in successive turn, with lavish hand Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower, Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch, From land to land is flush’d the vernal year. JAMES THOMSON, 1700–1748.

THE SUN

* * * * *

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles; Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn. Laughs the wild sea around her budding isles, When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; Thou wheel’st away thy flight, the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake— All that was once so beautiful is torn By the wild winds which plow the lonely lake, And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow; Life lingers and would die, but thy return Gives to their gladden’d hearts an overflow Of all the power that brooded in the urn Of their chill’d frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.

The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring Thrills them, and gives them gladness in thy light, They glitter as the glancing swallow’s wing Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave that crumbles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore— The vales are thine; and when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o’er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.

The hills are thine; they catch the newest beam, And gladden in thy parting, where the wood Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream That flows from out thy fullness, as a flood Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Of nations in its waters; so thy rays Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss’d bough plays.

Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift Snows that have never wasted in a sky Which hath no stain; below the storm may drift Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by; Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie, Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there; And when below thy hues of beauty die, Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear Into the high, dark vault a brow that still is fair. JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

DELIGHT IN GOD.

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth; She is my Maker’s creature, therefore good. She is my mother, for she gave me birth. She is my tender nurse; she gives me food. But what’s a creature, Lord, compar’d to thee? Or what’s my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air; her dainty sweets refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; Her shrill-mouth’d choir sustains me with their flesh, And with their polyphonian notes delight me. But what’s the air, or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compar’d to thee?

I love the sea; she is my fellow-creature— My careful purveyor; she provides me store; She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore. But, Lord of oceans, when compar’d with thee, What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heaven’s high city I direct my journey, Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye; Mine eye, by contemplation’s great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky. But what is heav’n, great God, compar’d to thee? Without thy presence, heaven’s no heaven to me.

Without thy presence, earth gives no reflection; Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure; Without thy presence, air’s a rank infection; Without thy presence, heav’n’s itself no pleasure;

If not possess’d, if not enjoy’d in thee, What’s earth, or sea, or air, or heav’n to me?

The highest honors that the world can boast Are subjects far too low for my desire; The brightest beams of glory are, at most, But dying sparkles of thy living fire. The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be But nightly glow-worms if compar’d to thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares; Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet—sadness: Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness. Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have they being, when compar’d with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I? Not having thee, what have my labors got? Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I? And having thee alone, what have I not? I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be Possess’d of heav’n, heav’n unpossess’d of thee! FRANCIS QUARLES, 1592–1664.

NOON.

FROM THE SPANISH.

The sun, 'midst shining glory now concealed Upon heaven’s highest seat, Darts straightway down upon the parched field, His fierce and burning heat;

And on revolving noonday calls, that he His flushed and glowing face May show the world, and, rising from the sea, Aurora’s reign displace.

The wandering wind now rests his weary wings, And, hushed in silence, broods; And all the vocal choir of songsters sings Among the whispering woods.

And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe, His own dear shepherd-maid, The herd-boy leads along his flock of sheep To the sequestered shade;

Where shepherd youths and maids in secret bowers, In song and feast unite In joyful band, to pass the sultry hours Of their siesta light.

The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well, Beneath an oak-tree’s boughs, Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel, Now yields him to repose.

All, all is calm, is silent. O how sweet, On this enameled ground, At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat, To cast your eyes around!

The busy bee, that round your listening ear Murmurs with drowsy hum; The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near, Moaning their mates’ sad doom.

And ever in the distance her sweet song Murmurs lorn Philomel; While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolong Her love and music well.

And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet, In whose bright limpid stream The blue sky and the world of boughs are met, Mirrored in one bright gleam.

And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves, The slumbering winds scarce blow, Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous waves, Follow their motion slow.

These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat, Bright with a thousand flowers; These interwoven forests, where the heat Is tempered in their bowers!

The dark umbrageous woods, the dense array Of trunks, through which there peers Perchance the town, which, in the glow of day, Like crystal light appears!

These cooling grottoes! O retirement blest! Within thy calm abode My mind alone can from her troubles rest, With solitude and God.

Thou giv’st me life, and liberty, and love, And all I now admire, And from the winter of my soul dost move The deep enthusiast fire.

O bounteous Nature, ’tis thy healing womb Alone can peace procure! Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come, From storms of life secure. _Anonymous Translation._ JUAN MELENDEZ VALDES, 1754–1817.

[Illustration: J.W. ORR, Sc.]

SUMMER DREAM.

FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.

’Twas summer; through the spring grass The joyous flowers upsprang; The birds in all their different tribes Loud in the woodlands sang: Then forth I went, and wandered far The wide, green meadow o’er— Where cool and clear the fountain play’d— There strayed I in that hour.

Roaming on, the nightingale Sang sweetly in my ear; And by the greenwood’s shady side, A dream came to me there. Fast by the fountain, where bright flowers Of sparkling hue we see; Close sheltered from the summer heat, That vision came to me.

All care was banished, and repose Came o’er my wearied breast; And kingdoms seemed to wait on me, For I was with the blest.

Yet while it seemed as if away, My spirit soared on high, And in the boundless joys of heaven Was rapp’d in ecstasy; E’en then my body revel’d still In earth’s festivity; And surely never was a dream So sweet as this to me.

Thus I dreamed on, and might have dwelt Still on that rapturous dream, When hark! a raven’s luckless note— (Sooth ’twas a direful scream!) Broke up the vision of delight. Instant my joy was past; O had a stone but met my hand, That hour had been his last! _Translation of_ E. TAYLOR. WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE, _about 1150_.

SUMMER.

The spring’s gay promise melted into thee, Fair summer! and thy gentle reign is here; The emerald robes are on each leafy tree; In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear; And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reign— They leap in music midst thy bright domain.

The gales that wander from the unclouded west Are burden’d with the breath of countless fields; They teem with incense from the green earth’s breast, That up to heaven its grateful odor yields, Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird, By nature’s aspect into rapture stirr’d.

In such a scene the sun-illumin’d heart Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell, When through its bars the morning glories dart, And forest anthems in his hearing swell; And like the heaving of the voiceful sea, His panting bosom labors to be free.

Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky, O summer! in my inmost soul arise Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply, And the bland air with its soft melodies; Till basking in some vision’s glorious ray, I long for eagle’s plumes to flee away.

I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside, And the impure, unholy thoughts that cling To the sad bosom, torn with care and pride; I would soar upward, on unfetter’d wing, Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies, Where the high fount of summer brightness lies! WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, 1810–1841.

PORTUGUESE CANZONET.

OF CAMOENS.

Flowers are fresh, and bushes green, Cheerily the linnets sing; Winds are soft, and skies serene; Time, however, soon shall throw, Winter’s snow, O’er the buxom breast of spring!

Hope that buds in lover’s heart, Lives not through the scorn of years; Time makes love itself depart; Time and scorn congeal the mind— Looks unkind— Freeze affection’s warmest tears.

Time shall make the bushes green; Time dissolve the winter snow; Winds be soft, and skies serene; Linnets sing their wonted strain. But again, Blighted love shall never blow! _Translated by_ VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. LUIS DE CAMÕENS, 1524–1579.