ODE ON THE APPROACH OF SUMMER.

ODE ON THE APPROACH OF SUMMER . BY — . HENCE , iron-scepter'd Winter , haste To bleak Siberian waste ! Haste to thy polar solitude ; Mid cataracts of ice , Whose torrents dumb are stretch'd in fragments rude , From many an airy precipice , Where , ever beat by sleety showers , Thy gloomy Gothic castle towers ; Amid whose howling iles and halls , Where no gay sunbeam paints the walls ; On ebon throne thou lov'st to shroud Thy brows in many a murky cloud . Ev'n now , before the vernal heat , Sullen I see thy train retreat : Thy ruthless host stern Eurus guides , That on a ravenous tyger rides , Dim-figur'd on whose robe are shewn Shipwrecks , and villages o'erthrown : Grim Auster , dropping all with dew , In mantle clad of watchet hue : And Cold , like Zemblan savage seen , Still threatning with his arrows keen ; And next , in furry coat embost With icicles , his brother Frost . Winter , farewel ! thy forests hoar , Thy frozen floods delight no more ; Farewel the fields , so bare and wild ! But come thou rose-cheek cherub mild , Sweetest Summer ! haste thee here , Once more to crown the gladden'd year . Thee April blithe , as long of yore , Bermudas' lawns he frolick'd o'er , With muskye nectar-trickling wing , ( In the new world's first dawning spring ) To gather balm of choicest dews , And patterns fair of various hues , With which to paint in changeful dye , The youthful earth's embroidery ; To cull the essence of rich smells , In which to dip his new-born bells ; Thee , as he skimm'd with pinions fleet , He found an infant , smiling sweet ; Where a tall citron's shade imbrown'd The soft lap of the fragrant ground . There on an amaranthine bed , Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed ; Till soon beneath his forming care , You look'd a goddess debonair ; And then he gave the blessed isle , Aye to be sway'd beneath thy smile : There plac'd thy green and grassy shrine , With myrtle bower'd and jessamine : And to thy care the task assign'd With quickening hand , and nurture kind , His roseate infant-births to rear , Till Autumn's mellowing reign appear . Haste thee , nymph ! and hand in hand With thee lead a buxom band ; Bring fantastic-footed Joy , With Sport , that yellow-tressed boy . Leisure , that thro' the balmy sky Chases a crimson butterfly . Bring Health , that loves in early dawn To meet the milk-maid on the lawn ; Bring Pleasure , rural nymph , and Peace , Meek , cottage-loving shepherdess ! And that sweet stripling , Zephyr , bring , Light , and for ever on the wing . Bring the dear Muse , that loves to lean On river margins , mossy green . But who is she that bears thy train , Pacing light the velvet plain ? The pale pink binds her auburn hair , Her tresses flow with pastoral air ; 'Tis May , the grace — confest she stands By branch of hawthorn in her hands : Lo ! near her trip the lightsome dews , Their wings all ting'd in iris-hues ; With whom the powers of Flora play , And paint with pansies all the way . Oft when thy season , sweetest Queen , Has drest the groves in livery green , When in each fair and fertile field Beauty begins her bower to build ; While Evening , veil'd in shadows brown , Puts her matron-mantle on , And mists in spreading steams convey More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay ; Then , Goddess , guide my pilgrim feet Contemplation hoar to meet , As slow he winds in museful mood , Near the rush'd marge of Cherwell's flood ; Or o'er old Avon's magic edge , Whence Shakespeare cull'd the spiky sedge , All playful yet , in years unripe , To frame a shrill and simple pipe . There thro' the dusk but dimly seen , Sweet evening objects intervene : His wattled cotes the shepherd plants , Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants . The woodman , speeding home , awaile Rests him at a shady stile . Nor wants there fragrance to dispense Refreshment o'er my soothed sense ; Nor tangled woodbines balmy bloom , Nor grass besprent , to breathe perfume ! Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet To bathe in dew my roving feet : Nor wants there note of Philomel ; Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell : Nor lowings faint of herds remote , Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cott ; Rustle the breezes lightly borne Or deep-embattled ears of corn : Round ancient elm with humming noise , Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice . Meantime a thousand dies invest The ruby chambers of the west ! That all aslant the village tower A mild reflected radiance pour , While , with the level-streaming rays Far seen its arched windows blaze : And the tall grove's green top is dight In russet tints , and gleams of light : So that the gay scene by degrees Bathes my blithe heart in extasies ; And Fancy to my ravish'd sight Pourtrays her kindred visions bright . At length the parting light subdues My soften'd soul to calmer views , And fainter shapes of pensive joy , As twilight dawns , my mind employ , Till from the path I fondly stray In musings lapt , nor heed the way ; Wandering thro' the landscape still , Till Melancholy has her fill ; And on each moss-wove border damp , The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp . But when the sun , at noon-tide hour , Sits throned in his highest tower ; Me , heart-rejoicing Goddess , lead To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead : To mix in rural mood among The nymphs and swains , a busy throng ; Or , as the tepid odours breathe , The russet piles to lean beneath : There as my listless limbs are thrown On couch more soft than palace down , I listen to the busy sound Of mirth and toil that hums around ; And see the team shrill-tinkling pass Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass . But ever , after summer-shower , When the bright sun's returning power ; With laughing beam has chas'd the storm ; And chear'd reviving Nature's form ; By sweet-brier hedges , bath'd in dew , Let me my wholesome path pursue ; There issuing forth the frequent snail ; Wears the dank way with slimy trail ; While as I walk , from pearled bush The sunny sparkling drop I brush ; And all the landscape fair I view Clad in robe of fresher hue : And so loud the black-bird sings , That far and near the valley rings . From shelter deep of shaggy rock The shepherd drives his joyful flock ; From bowering beech the mower blithe With new-born vigour grasps the scythe ; While o'er the smooth unbounded meads His last faint gleam the rainbow spreads . But ever , against restless heat , Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat , O'er whose dim mouth an ivy'd oak Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock ; Haunted by that chaste nymph alone , Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone ; Which , as they gush upon the ground , Still scatter misty dews around : A rustic , wild , grotesque alcove , Its side with mantling woodbines wove ; Cool as the cave where Clio dwells , Whence Helicon's fresh fountain wells ; Or noon-tide grott where Sylvan sleeps In hoar Lycaeum's piny steeps . Me , Goddess , in such cavern lay , While all without is scorch'd in day ; Sore sighs the weary swain , beneath His withering hawthorn on the heath ; The drooping hedger wishes eve , In vain , of labour short reprieve ! Meantime , on Afric's glowing sands , Smote with keen heat , the traveller stands : Low sinks his heart , while round his eye Measures the scenes that boundless lie , Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn , Where Thirst , wan pilgrim , walks forlorn . How does he wish some cooling wave To slake his lips , or limbs to lave ! And thinks , in every whisper low , He hears a bursting fountain flow . Or bear me to yon antique wood , Dim temple of sage Solitude ! But still in Fancy's mirror sees Some more romantic scene would please , There within a nook most dark , Where none my musing mood may mark , Let me , in many a whisper'd rite , The Genius old of Greece invite , With that fair wreath my brows to bind , Which for his chosen imps he twin'd , Well nurtur'd in Pierian lore , On clear Ilissus' laureat shore — Till high on waving nest reclin'd , The raven wakes my tranced mind ! Or to the forest-fringed vale Where widow'd turtles love to wail , Where cowslips clad in mantle meek , Nod their tall heads to breezes weak : In the midst , with sedges grey Crown'd , a scant rivulet winds its way , And trembling thro' the weedy wreaths , Around an oozy freshness breathes . O'er the solitary green , Nor cott , nor loitering hind is seen : Nor aught alarms the mute repose , Save that by fits an heifer lows : A scene might tempt some peaceful sage To rear him a lone hermitage ; Fit place his pensive eld might chuse On Virtue's holy lore to muse . Yet still the sultry noon t' appease Some more romantic scene might please ; Or fairy bank , or magic lawn , By Spenser's lavish pencil drawn ; Or bower in Vallambrosa's shade , By legendary pens pourtray'd . Haste let me shroud from painful light , On that hoar hill's aërial height , In solemn state , where waving wide , Thick pines with darkening umbrage hide The rugged vaults , and riven towers Of that proud castle's painted bowers , Whence Hardyknute , a baron bold , In Scotland's martial days of old , Descended from the stately feast , Begirt with many a warrior-guest , To quell the pride of Norway's king , With quivering lance and twanging string . As thro' the caverns dim I wind , Might I that holy legend find , By fairies spelt in mystic rhymes , To teach enquiring later times , What open force , or secret guile , Dash'd into dust the solemn pile . But when mild Morn in saffron stole First issues from her eastern goal ; Let not my due feet fail to climb Some breezy summit's brow sublime , Whence Nature's universal face Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace ; The misty streams that wind below , With silver-sparkling lustre glow ; The groves , and castled cliffs appear Invested all in radiance clear ; O ! every village-charm beneath ! The smoke that mounts in azure wreath ! O beauteous , rural interchange ! The simple spire , and elmy grange ! Content , indulging blissful hours , Whistles o'er the fragrant flowers , And cattle rouz'd to pasture new , Shake jocund from their sides the dew . 'Tis thou alone , O Summer mild , Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild : Whene'er I view thy genial scenes , Thy waving woods , embroider'd greens , What fires within my bosom wake , How glows my mind the reed to take ! What charms like thine the muse can call , With whom 'tis youth and laughter all ; With whom each field's a paradise , And all the globe a bower of bliss ! With thee conversing , all the day , I meditate my lightsome lay . These pedant cloisters let me leave To breathe my votive song at eve , In valleys where mild whispers use ; Of shade and stream to court the muse ; While wandering o'er the brook's dim verge , I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge . But when life's busier scene is o'er : And age shall give the tresses hoar , I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome , And make an humble thatch my home , Which sloping hills around enclose , Where many a beech and brown oak grows ; Beneath whose dark and branching bowers Its tides a far-fam'd river pours : By Nature's beauties taught to please , Sweet Tuseulane of rural ease ! Still grot of Peace ! in lowly shed Who loves to rest her gentle head . For not the scenes of Attic art Can comfort care , or soothe the heart : Nor burning cheek , nor wakeful eye , For gold , and Tyrian purple fly . Thither , kind heaven , in pity lent , Send me a little and content ; The faithful friend , and chearful night , The social scene of dear delight : The conscience pure , the temper gay , The musing eve , and idle day . Give me beneath cool shades to sit , Rapt with the charms of classic wit : To catch the bold heroic flame , That built immortal Graecia's fame . Nor let me fail , meantime , to raise The solemn song to Britain's praise : To spurn the shepherd's simple reeds , And paint heroic ancient deeds : To chant fam'd Arthur's magic tale And Edward , stern in sable mail . Or wandering Brutus' lawless doom , Or brave Bonduca , scourge of Rome ; O ever to sweet poesie , Let me live true votary ! She shall lead me by the hand , Queen of sweet smiles , and solace bland ! She from her precious stores shall shed Ambrosial flowrets o'er my head : She , from my tender youthful cheek Can wipe , with lenient finger meek , The secret and unpitied tear , Which still I drop in darkness drear . She shall be my blooming bride , With her , as years successive glide , I'll hold divinest dalliance , For ever held in holy trance .