Classic Poem

Hie me now, and give me rest
In great fields by Summer drest;
Where the moist pea-bloom is seen
Smiling on the tender bean;
Where the corn unfolds its silk,
And unhoards earth's balmy milk;
Or where stand the oaten leaves,
Dreaming of the autumn sheaves;
Or where lovingly entwine
The vetchling and the sweet woodbine.
Or let me entrancèd go
Where the heavy hautboys grow,
And receive the first impress
Of the summer's fruitfulness.

Urged by silver-footed June,
Summer dons her flowery shoon,
And, where Spring was wont to be,
On the green, herd-haunted lea,
Sports in youthful gaiety.
Now she lays her cheek full low,
Bosoming all flow'rs which grow,
Till the blinkards ope their eyes,
And from prison-dreams arise,
Wond'ring at the fond caress
Which sets free their loveliness.
Now she roams the valleys through,
Licking up the clammy dew
Which bows down the tender grass,
Sick-sore with the wealth it has.
This she takes where roses pine,
And drops it softly from her eyne,
Till they quick forget again
Irksome days and faintish pain.

Now the lazy, lagging hours
Drowse within her sun-built bowers,
And her leafy henchmen keep
Linkèd arms in poppied sleep.
Silently in musky dell
All dew-dropping zephyrs dwell,
While the smooth, eloinèd sky
Feeds her flocks of clouds which lie
Basking 'neath with sunny smiles
Ere they hasten to their toils,
And from ocean bring again
Thunder-gloom and panting rain.

O Day! give me all thy beams,
All thy warm, embodied dreams,
Such as pant in meadow still,
By streamlet brink, or upland hill.
O Fields! give me all your flow'rs
Which beguile the wanton Hours,
All sweet dews which night distils,
All your shallow, whisp'ring rills,
All your deeply perfumed breath,
Ev'ry note each small bird hath,
Ev'ry breeze by woods delayed,
Each cool place those woods have made—

So may I thy riches prove
Till Sleep bring me dreams of love,
Dreams of by-gone chivalry,
Wassailing and revelry,
And lordly seasons long since spent
In bout, and joust, and tournament.
And, mid visioned feats of arms,
Fierce attacks and rude alarms,
Let my dreams run back to thee,
Chastely fair Eurydice!
To the lover and the lute,
Which made the mighty torrents mute,
And rumbling hell itself grow meek,
While iron tears from Pluto's cheek
Rolled down. Then let processions pass—
Bacchanals, each with his lass,
Waving mighty clusters round,
Tipsily, until the ground
Purples with the clammy juice,
Spoilt for quaffing, spoilt for use.
And let nymph-attended Pan
Come in habit of a man,
Singing songs of reeds and rushes,
Elder brakes and hazel bushes.
See him swing and jig about,
Whilst the merry, rabble rout
Chases round with joinèd hands,
Twitching slily, when he stands,
At his back, his garments tearing,
All his swart, brute-buttocks baring.
And let Comus and his crew
Shout until the welkin blue
Claps its hands in quick refrain,
And echoes o'er and o'er again.
Flushed and jolly is his face,
With something of Olymp'an grace
Still ling'ring on his beamy brow:
Now lolls he on the ground, and now
His youthful revellers recline,
Draining beakers full of wine,
Or, upstarting from the green,
With a wild, unsteady mien,
Tread a measure on the sod,
In honor of the mirthful god.

Then let my spirits sink or swim,
And now grow bright, or now grow dim;
For Hermes waves his mystic wand,
And all is hushed—the rivers stand;
The rain sleeps midway from the earth,
And lab'ring mothers long for birth;
The birds hang motionless in air,
And, Silence, aching everywhere,
A dumb and heavy darkness brings
Upon all manner of sweet things.
Lo! creepeth in my hearing then
The windy tread of lifeless men—
Grim skeletons in rattling hosts,
Wan spectres, and unhouseled ghosts!
They draw anear, they lean upon me,
They lay their clammy fingers on me!
Hell-doomed, of floating gloom I drink,
And none to save, I sink! I sink!
Dear Mother! hear a mortal's call,
And help me, save me ere I fall.

Awake! Awake! The woods are bright
With mirror-leaves and slumb'ry light.
The streams are singing madrigals,
And bird to bird in gladness calls.
Buzzing whispers float about,
And, from afar, the ploughman's shout
And dinner-hollas are upborne
From trumpet-wood and valley-horn.

Ye who faint with city moil,
Come and stay with me awhile.
We will find a mossy bed,
With awning branches overhead,
And juicy coolness of large leaves,
Much longed for by the swelt'ring beeves,
And, enravished, we will go
Where the honeysuckles grow—
We will pluck them. Come with me,
To the vales and forest free,
Where the runnels, as of yore,
Keep for us a varied store
Of gleams and glooms and pebbled edges,
Mallows, pipy reeds and sedges.
We will haunt the meadows all,
And barren leas where berries fall
From spiny twigs in juicy sweetness,
And mark betimes the nimble fleetness
Of startled wild-deer breaking cover,
Or lazy flight of fat-winged plover,
And, our pleasures to enhance
With a new delight, perchance
Waylay some Driad as she broods
In silence mid leaves-dropping woods.

Now the big, full-breasted sun
All his downward course hath run,
And silent vesper shineth through
Her heavenly shroud of purple hue.
The hour has come for greetings sweet,
The quiet hour for blessings meet,
And sober souls may now repast
On what the day had overcast;
For Summer quiteth not the sight,
But dwelleth, mingleth with the night,
And crowns her hulky crags and trees
With light from starry palaces.
Now weird Imagination finds
A cave where lodge night-whisp'ring winds,
Sees Hecate gleaning baleful dew
By lonely tarn or rustling yew,
Or hears the night-hag muttering
O'er bubbling brook or haunted spring.
Aghast she flies the hated scene,
With wild affright and startled mien,
Then stops, and broods, and starts again
At thievish shadows on the plain.

But purer fancies will be ours!
We will haunt the moon-lit bow'rs,
Where matchless odours faint in flight
From primrose fountains of the night.
And, amid our varied joys,
We will muse on Summer's ploys:—
How no partial gifts are hers,
But now the palms and now the firs
Are dozed with kisses balmy-sweet
From lips which breathe a pulsing heat.
How she is the blessed wafter
Of forest tunes and streamy laughter,
When Spring hath lifted in a trice
The Winter's heavy lid of ice,
And travels east, and travels west,
Till the nations all are blest.

Then will we mingle sad with sweet,
And think how wonderfully fleet
Are brightest things, how quick o'ercast
With the shadow, with the past;
And how to blackened embers turn
The hearts of those poor ones that mourn
Excess of joy; ay, how they waste
Their fateful lives who ever haste
From shine to shine, till in the shade
Of darkling years, where truth has made
A bitter tomb for king and clown,
They lay their loathèd pleasures down.
Then will we think upon, and bless
The wise whose heart ne'er beats amiss;
Whose charity is large, whose hand
Is full of counsels featly planned
To trick despair of ev'ry spoil,
And quicken hope, and brighten toil;
Who knows the pleasures without pain,
Fast-followers in Virtue's train,
And, 'neath their softly-dropping balm,
Lightly layeth palm to palm,
Till his hands are incense-full.

Sleep, now, and dream of fruitage cool
Mellowing on the heavy boughs.
Sleep and dream of upturned brows
Ever gazing where afar
The heav'ns' own tender blossoms are
Ev'ry moment fainter growing.
Sleep and dream of dear ones glowing
With delight, and lovely all,
While the rosy music-fall
Leaps 'twixt their snowy-tinted teeth.
Sleep and dream of ev'ry heath
Where blooms resort for peacefulness,
And unseen fingers love to dress
Fair, healthy bow'rs and leafy ways
Through the long Summer's shining days.