Summer

'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 dazling 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 steams

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 chearful sound

Of sharpening scythe: the mower sinking heaps

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

And scarce a chirping grass-hopper is heard

Thro' the dumb mead. Distresful Nature pants.

The very streams look languid from afar;

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

To hurl into the covert of the grove.