Classic Poem

( BALLADE )

Heated , forespent, in hot July,
Come, leave, dull souls, your desks and gains;
The windward sails are flapping nigh,
Who listeth ease may have, for pains.
Come where the beckoning ripples run,
Where is nor rage, nor hue, nor cry;
White sails shall swell and fend the sun.
Count not gold gain in hot July.

Come to the hills from hot July,
The hills that breathe the willing north,
Where pines feel not the south wind's sigh,
But toss to Boreas stalking forth.
There is nor feverish rush nor crowd
Of men gone mad for gold to try;
Kind Nature there repeats aloud,
" Count not gold gain in hot July. "

Heated, forespent, in hot July,
Seek where ye list some healing spot
May cure the brain, the filmy eye;
Seek where ye list, where, gains forgot,
Hearts may revive, and sweet return
The bloom of youth, ah! soon gone by,
Seek where ye list, so ye but learn, —
Count not gold gain in hot July.

ENVOY .

Ye tradesmen, princes, men of law,
Heed yet the gentle warning cry,
" No wheat may grow from withered straw;
Count not gold gain in hot July. "