To Summer

O thou who passest thro' our valleys

Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the

That flames from their large nostrils! thou,

O Summer,

Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and

Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we

With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have

Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid

Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our

Sit down, and in our mossy valleys,

Some bank beside a river clear, throw

Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:

Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:

Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:

Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:

We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,

Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,

Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.