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.
