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SUMMER THE TROPICS.

BEAR me, Pomona, to thy citron groves;
To where the lemon, and the piercing lime,
With the deep orange, glowing through the green,
Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclined
Beneath the spreading tamarind that shakes,
Fanned by the breeze, its ever-cooling fruit.
Deep in the night the massy locust sheds,
Quench my hot limbs; or lead me through the maze,
Embowering endless, of the Indian fig:

Or thrown at gayer ease, on some fair brow,
Let me behold, by breezy murmurs cooled,
Broad o'er my head the verdant cedars wave,
And high palmettos lift their graceful shade.
Or stretched amid these orchards of the sun,
Give me to drain the cocoa's milky bowl,
And from the palm to draw its freshening wine,
More bounteous far than all the frantic juice
Which Bacchus pours. Nor, on its slender twigs,
Low bending, be the full pomegranate scorned;
Nor, creeping through the wood, the gelid race
Of berries. Oft in humble station dwells
Unboastful worth, above fastidious pomp.
Witness, thou best Anana! thou, the pride
Of vegetable life, beyond whate'er
The poets fabled in the golden age :
Quick let me strip thee of thy tufty coat,

Spread thy ambrosial store, and feast with Jove.

THOMSON.

SUMMER MORNING.

AWAKE! the morning shines, and the fresh fields
Call you ye lose the prime to mark how spring
The tender plants; how blows the citron grove;
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed;
How Nature paints her colours; how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweets.

MILTON.

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INVITATION TO SOLITUDE.

BUT when the sun

Shakes from his noon-day throne the scatt'ring clouds,
E'en shooting listless languor through the deeps;
Then seek the bank where flow'ring elders crowd;
Where, scatter'd wild, the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes; where cowslips hang
The dewy head; where purple violets lurk
With all the lowly children of the shade;
Or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash

Hung o'er the steep, whence, borne on liquid wing,
The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk
High in the beetling cliff his aerie builds.
There let the classic page thy fancy lead
Through rural scenes, such as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless harmony of song;

Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye:

Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in the dream,
Confus'd, of careless solitude, where mix
Ten thousand wand'ring images of things,
Soothe ev'ry gust of passion into peace;
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.

THOMSON.

THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

THOU'RT bearing hence the roses,
Glad Summer, fare thee well!
Thou'rt singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell.

Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly
Thine hours have floated by,

To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs,
The rangers of the sky.

And brightly in the forest,

To the wild deer wandering free;
And brightly, 'midst the garden flowers,
To the happy murmuring bee.

But, oh! thou gentle Summer,
If I greet thy flowers once more,
Bring me again the buoyancy

Wherewith my soul should soar!

MRS. HEMANS.

AUTUMN.

WHEN the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,
And Libra weighs in equal scales the year;

From heaven's high cope, with fierce effulgence shook,
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,

With golden light enlivened, wide invests

The happy world. Attempered suns arise,
Sweet-beamed, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad and brown below,
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain :
A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air

Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined fields,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily-chequered, heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around,
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.

THOMSON.

L'AUTOMNE.

SALUT, bois couronnés d'un reste de verdure!
Feuillages jaunissans sur les gazons épars!
Salut, derniers beaux jours! le deuil de la nature
Convient à ma douleur, et plait à mes regards.

Oui, dans ces jours d'Automne où la nature expire,
A ses regards voilés je trouve plus d'attraits.
C'est l'adieu d'un ami, c'est le dernier sourire
Des lèvres que la mort va fermer pour jamais.

Ainsi, prêt à quitter l'horizon de la vie,

Pleurant de mes longs jours l'espoir évanoui, Je me retourne encore, et d'un regard d'envie Je contemple ses biens dont je n'ai pas joui.

Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature!

Je vous dois une larme au bord de mon tombeau ; L'air est si parfumé ! la lumière est si pure! Aux regards d'un mourant le soleil est si beau.

Je voudrais maintenant vuider jusqu'à la lie,
Ce calice mêlé de nectar et de fiel:
Au fond de cette coupe où je buvais la vie,
Peutêtre restait-il une goutte de miel !

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