Our hemisphere is polished clean, And lightened more and more; Except the glistering astres bright, The golden globe incontinent Sets up his shining head, And o'er the earth and firmament Displays his beams abread. For joy the birds with boulden throats Against his visage sheen Take up their kindly music notes. In woods and gardens green. The dew upon the tender crops, Like pearls white and round, The misty reek, the clouds of rain Clear are the highest hills and plain, The vapours take the vales. The ample heaven, of fabric sure, In cleanness does surpass The crystal and the silver pure, Or clearest polished glass. The time so tranquil is and still, All trees and simples, great and small, That balmy leaf do bear, Than they were painted on a wall, No more they move or steir. Calm is the deep and purple sea, The waves, that weltering wont to be, So silent is the cessile air, That every cry and call, The hills and dales and forest fair Again repeats them all. The flourishes and fragrant flowers, Through Phoebus' fostering heat, Refreshed with dew and silver showers, Cast up an odour sweet. The clogged busy humming bees, On flowers and flourishes of trees, The sun, most like a speedy post, With ardent course ascends; Not guided by a Phaethon, Not trained in a chair, But by the high and holy One, Who does all where empire. The burning beams down from his face So fervently can beat, That man and beast now seek a place To save them from the heat. The herds beneath some leafy tree, The stable ships upon the sea Tend up their sails to dry. With gilded eyes and open wings, The cock his courage shows; With claps of joy his breast he dings, And twenty times he crows. The dove with whistling wings so blue The winds can fast collect, Her purple pens turn many a hue Now noon is went; gone is midday, The heat does slake at last, The sun descends down west away, For three of clock is past. The rayons of the sun we see Diminish in their strength, The shade of every tower and tree Great is the calm, for everywhere The reek throws right up in the air The gloaming comes, the day is spent, The sun goes out of sight, And painted is the occident The scarlet nor the golden thread, Are nothing like the colour red Our west horizon circular, Or roses red o'erfret. What pleasure were to walk and see, Endlong a river clear, The perfect form of every tree Within the deep appear. Oh, then it were a seemly thing, While all is still and calm, The praise of God to play and sing With cornet and with shalm! All labourers draw home at even, And can to other say, Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, Which sent this summer day. 9. HOLIDAY IN ARCADIA. WOODMEN, shepherds, come away, With your heaven-aspiring airs While valleys with your echoes ring. Nymphs that dwell within these groves, Gather posies, Crown your golden hair with roses; As you pass, Foot like fairies on the grass. Joy crown our bowers! Philomel, |