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
.