Urged to the giddy brink; much is the toil,
The clamour much of men, and boys, and dogs,
Ere the soft fearful people to the flood
Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain,
On some impatient seizing, hurls them in
Embolden'd then, nor hesitating more,
Fast, fast they plunge amid the flashing wave,
And, panting, labour to the farthest shore.
Repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece
Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt
The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream;
Heavy, and dripping, to the breezy brow
Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread
Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray,
Inly disturb'd, and wondering what this wild
Outrageous tumult means; their loud complaints
The country fill, and, toss'd from rock to rock,
Incessant bleatings run around the hills.
Not less happy is the description which the same poet gives of shearing the sheep.
"At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks
Are in the wattled pen innumerous prest:
Head above head, and rang'd in lusty rows,
The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears;
Meanwhile, their joyous task goes on apace.
Some mingling stir the melted tar; and some
Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side,
To stamp his master's cypher ready stand;
Others the unwilling wether drag along;
And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy
Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram.
Behold, where bound, and of his robes bereft
By needy man, that all-depending lord,
How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies!
What softness in its melancholy face!
What dumb, complaining innocence appears!
Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife
Of horrid slaughter, that is o'er you waved;
No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears,
Who having now, to pay his annual care,
Borrow'd
your fleece, to you a cumbrous load,
Will send you bounding to your hills again."
A pleasing instance of the power of instinct may also be observed. While the ewes are being shorn, the lambs are kept in separate folds; but when permitted again to meet there is a quick recognition. The mother bleats when escaped from the shears, and the lamb, uttering its response, skips forward; it may be startled at first by her strange appearance, but in a moment her repeated cry and well-known smell have chased all doubt, and the gambol of the lamb is the token of its inward glee.
""Tis summer, 'tis summer,-the wild birds are singing,
The woods and the glens with their sweet notes are ringing;
The skies are all glowing with crimson and gold,
And the trees their bright blossoms begin to unfold.
The cushat is breathing his murmurs of love,
The stars are adorning the blue skies above,
While the moon in her beauty is shining on high,
And soothing the heart, while she pleases the eye.
""Tis summer, 'tis summer-and winter no more
Is heard in the winds, or the ocean's wild roar;
But so calm are the waves over all the great deep,
That their murmurs might lull a young infant to sleep;
The streamlets are gliding all lovely and calm,
And the zephyrs come laden with fragrance and balm;
Then oh let us bow to the Merciful Power,
Who lives in the sun-beam, the tree, and the flower;
Who stills the wild tempest, and bids the vast sea
Unruffled and calm as a placid lake be.
Let us bow to that God who gave summer its birth,
And who scatters his treasures all over the earth."
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