XI.Summer.

MODERN VERSION.

Summer is a coming in.Loud sing, cuckoo;Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,And springeth the wood new.Sing, cuckoo, cuckoo!Ewe bleateth after lamb;Loweth calf after cow;Bullock starteth, buck departeth;Merry sing, cuckoo;Cuckoo, cuckoo;Well singeth the cuckoo—Sing ever, stop never,Cuckoo, cuckoo;Sing, cuckoo!Anonymous, about 1250

Summer is a coming in.Loud sing, cuckoo;Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,And springeth the wood new.Sing, cuckoo, cuckoo!

Summer is a coming in.

Loud sing, cuckoo;

Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,

And springeth the wood new.

Sing, cuckoo, cuckoo!

Ewe bleateth after lamb;Loweth calf after cow;Bullock starteth, buck departeth;Merry sing, cuckoo;Cuckoo, cuckoo;Well singeth the cuckoo—Sing ever, stop never,Cuckoo, cuckoo;Sing, cuckoo!Anonymous, about 1250

Ewe bleateth after lamb;

Loweth calf after cow;

Bullock starteth, buck departeth;

Merry sing, cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo;

Well singeth the cuckoo—

Sing ever, stop never,

Cuckoo, cuckoo;

Sing, cuckoo!

Anonymous, about 1250

LINES

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON OF KING ALFRED.

When the sunClearest shinesSerenest in the heaven,Quickly are obscuredOver the earthAll other stars;Because their brightness is notBrightness at allCompared withThe sun’s light.When mild blowsThe southwestern windUnder the clouds,Then quickly growThe flowers of the field,Joyful that they may.But the stark storm,When it comes strongFrom north and east,It quickly takes awayThe beauty of the rose.And also the northern storm,Constrained by necessity,That it is strongly agitated,Lashes the spacious seaAgainst the shore.Alas! that our earthAught of permanentWork in the worldDoes not ever remain!Rev. S. Fox’sversion, 800.

When the sun

Clearest shines

Serenest in the heaven,

Quickly are obscured

Over the earth

All other stars;

Because their brightness is not

Brightness at all

Compared with

The sun’s light.

When mild blows

The southwestern wind

Under the clouds,

Then quickly grow

The flowers of the field,

Joyful that they may.

But the stark storm,

When it comes strong

From north and east,

It quickly takes away

The beauty of the rose.

And also the northern storm,

Constrained by necessity,

That it is strongly agitated,

Lashes the spacious sea

Against the shore.

Alas! that our earth

Aught of permanent

Work in the world

Does not ever remain!

Rev. S. Fox’sversion, 800.

They come! the merry summer months of beauty, love, and flowers;They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad, fling work and care aside;Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal trees,See through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.The grass is soft; its velvet touch is grateful to the hand,And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;The daisy and the butter-cup are nodding courteously;It stirs their blood with kindest love to bless and welcome thee.And mark how with thine own thin locks, they now are silvery gray—That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering “Be gay!”There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon skyBut hath its own winged mariners to give it melody.Thou see’st their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold,And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this earth,Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound—from yonder wood it came;The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name.Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind,Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western winds.Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again—his notes are void of art,But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!To suck once more in every breath, their little souls away,And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth’s bright summer day;When rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy—Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!I’m sadder now—I have had cause; but O I’m proud to thinkThat each pure joy-fount loved of yore I yet delight to drink;Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by.When summer’s loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,I’ll bear indeed life’s heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old.William Motherwell, 1797–1835.

They come! the merry summer months of beauty, love, and flowers;

They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.

Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad, fling work and care aside;

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;

Or underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal trees,

See through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft; its velvet touch is grateful to the hand,And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;The daisy and the butter-cup are nodding courteously;It stirs their blood with kindest love to bless and welcome thee.And mark how with thine own thin locks, they now are silvery gray—That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering “Be gay!”

The grass is soft; its velvet touch is grateful to the hand,

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;

The daisy and the butter-cup are nodding courteously;

It stirs their blood with kindest love to bless and welcome thee.

And mark how with thine own thin locks, they now are silvery gray—

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering “Be gay!”

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon skyBut hath its own winged mariners to give it melody.Thou see’st their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold,And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this earth,Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody.

Thou see’st their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold,

And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.

God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this earth,

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound—from yonder wood it came;The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name.Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind,Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western winds.Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again—his notes are void of art,But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound—from yonder wood it came;

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name.

Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind,

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western winds.

Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again—his notes are void of art,

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!To suck once more in every breath, their little souls away,And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth’s bright summer day;When rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy—Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!

To suck once more in every breath, their little souls away,

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth’s bright summer day;

When rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy—

Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

I’m sadder now—I have had cause; but O I’m proud to thinkThat each pure joy-fount loved of yore I yet delight to drink;Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by.When summer’s loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,I’ll bear indeed life’s heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old.William Motherwell, 1797–1835.

I’m sadder now—I have had cause; but O I’m proud to think

That each pure joy-fount loved of yore I yet delight to drink;

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,

Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by.

When summer’s loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,

I’ll bear indeed life’s heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old.

William Motherwell, 1797–1835.

Sweet day! so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;Thy root is ever in the grave,And thou must die.Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses—A box where sweets compacted lie—My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season’d timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.George Herbert, 1593–1632.

Sweet day! so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.

Sweet day! so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky;

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,

For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;Thy root is ever in the grave,And thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in the grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses—A box where sweets compacted lie—My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses—

A box where sweets compacted lie—

My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season’d timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.George Herbert, 1593–1632.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season’d timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert, 1593–1632.

But as when the sun approaches toward the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven, and sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and calls up the lark to matins, and by-and-by gilds the fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns—like those which decked the brows of Moses, when he was forced to wear a vail, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while a man tells the story, the sun gets up higher till he shows a fair face and full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets quickly: so is a man’s reason and his life.

Bishop Jeremy Taylor.

As when the cheerful sun elamping wide,Glads all the world with his uprising ray,And woos the widowed earth afresh to pride,And paints her bosom with the flowery May—His silent sister steals him quite way.Wrapp’d in a sable cloud, from mortal eyesThe hasty stars at noon begin to rise,And headlong to his early roost the sparrow flies.But soon as he again disshadowed is,Restoring the blind world his blemish’d sight—As though another world were newly his;The cozened birds busily take their flight,And wonder at the shortness of the night,So Mercy once again herself displays,Out from her sister’s cloud, and open laysThose sunshine looks, whose beams would dim a thousand days.Giles Fletcher.

As when the cheerful sun elamping wide,

Glads all the world with his uprising ray,

And woos the widowed earth afresh to pride,

And paints her bosom with the flowery May—

His silent sister steals him quite way.

Wrapp’d in a sable cloud, from mortal eyes

The hasty stars at noon begin to rise,

And headlong to his early roost the sparrow flies.

But soon as he again disshadowed is,Restoring the blind world his blemish’d sight—As though another world were newly his;The cozened birds busily take their flight,And wonder at the shortness of the night,So Mercy once again herself displays,Out from her sister’s cloud, and open laysThose sunshine looks, whose beams would dim a thousand days.Giles Fletcher.

But soon as he again disshadowed is,

Restoring the blind world his blemish’d sight—

As though another world were newly his;

The cozened birds busily take their flight,

And wonder at the shortness of the night,

So Mercy once again herself displays,

Out from her sister’s cloud, and open lays

Those sunshine looks, whose beams would dim a thousand days.

Giles Fletcher.

THE SUN

But yonder comes the powerful King of Day,Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,The kindling azure, and the mountain’s brow,Illum’d with fluid gold, his near approachBetoken glad. Lo! now apparent all,Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air,He looks in boundless majesty abroad,And sheds the shining day, that burnish’d playsOn rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams,High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, light!Of all material beings, first and best!Efflux divine! Nature’s resplendent robe!Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapp’dIn unessential gloom; and thou, O Sun,Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seenShines out thy Maker! may I sing of thee?* * * * *The vegetable world is also thine,Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precedeThat waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain,Annual, along the bright ecliptic road,In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime.Meantime th’ expecting nations, circled gayWith all the various tribes of foodful earth,Implore thy bounty, or send grateful upA common hymn; while 'round thy beaming car,High seen, the seasons lead in sprightly dance.Harmonious limit; the rosy-finger’d hours,The zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains,Of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews,And, softened into joy, the surly storms.Here, in successive turn, with lavish handShower every beauty, every fragrance shower,Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch,From land to land is flush’d the vernal year.James Thomson, 1700–1748.

But yonder comes the powerful King of Day,

Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,

The kindling azure, and the mountain’s brow,

Illum’d with fluid gold, his near approach

Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all,

Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air,

He looks in boundless majesty abroad,

And sheds the shining day, that burnish’d plays

On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams,

High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, light!

Of all material beings, first and best!

Efflux divine! Nature’s resplendent robe!

Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapp’d

In unessential gloom; and thou, O Sun,

Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen

Shines out thy Maker! may I sing of thee?

* * * * *

The vegetable world is also thine,Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precedeThat waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain,Annual, along the bright ecliptic road,In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime.Meantime th’ expecting nations, circled gayWith all the various tribes of foodful earth,Implore thy bounty, or send grateful upA common hymn; while 'round thy beaming car,High seen, the seasons lead in sprightly dance.Harmonious limit; the rosy-finger’d hours,The zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains,Of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews,And, softened into joy, the surly storms.Here, in successive turn, with lavish handShower every beauty, every fragrance shower,Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch,From land to land is flush’d the vernal year.James Thomson, 1700–1748.

The vegetable world is also thine,

Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precede

That waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain,

Annual, along the bright ecliptic road,

In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime.

Meantime th’ expecting nations, circled gay

With all the various tribes of foodful earth,

Implore thy bounty, or send grateful up

A common hymn; while 'round thy beaming car,

High seen, the seasons lead in sprightly dance.

Harmonious limit; the rosy-finger’d hours,

The zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains,

Of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews,

And, softened into joy, the surly storms.

Here, in successive turn, with lavish hand

Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower,

Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch,

From land to land is flush’d the vernal year.

James Thomson, 1700–1748.

THE SUN

* * * * *Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn.Laughs the wild sea around her budding isles,When through their heaven thy changing car is borne;Thou wheel’st away thy flight, the woods are shornOf all their waving locks, and storms awake—All that was once so beautiful is tornBy the wild winds which plow the lonely lake,And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;Life lingers and would die, but thy returnGives to their gladden’d hearts an overflowOf all the power that brooded in the urnOf their chill’d frames, and then they proudly spurnAll bands that would confine, and give to airHues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn,When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest thereRich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.The vales are thine; and when the touch of springThrills them, and gives them gladness in thy light,They glitter as the glancing swallow’s wingDashes the water in his winding flight,And leaves behind a wave that crumbles bright,And widens outward to the pebbled shore—The vales are thine; and when they wake from night,The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o’erTheir soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.The hills are thine; they catch the newest beam,And gladden in thy parting, where the woodFlames out in every leaf, and drinks the streamThat flows from out thy fullness, as a floodBursts from an unknown land, and rolls the foodOf nations in its waters; so thy raysFlow and give brighter tints than ever bud,When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blazeOf many twinkling gems, as every gloss’d bough plays.Thine are the mountains, where they purely liftSnows that have never wasted in a skyWhich hath no stain; below the storm may driftIts darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by;Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there;And when below thy hues of beauty die,Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bearInto the high, dark vault a brow that still is fair.James G. Percival.

* * * * *

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn.Laughs the wild sea around her budding isles,When through their heaven thy changing car is borne;Thou wheel’st away thy flight, the woods are shornOf all their waving locks, and storms awake—All that was once so beautiful is tornBy the wild winds which plow the lonely lake,And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;

Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn.

Laughs the wild sea around her budding isles,

When through their heaven thy changing car is borne;

Thou wheel’st away thy flight, the woods are shorn

Of all their waving locks, and storms awake—

All that was once so beautiful is torn

By the wild winds which plow the lonely lake,

And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;Life lingers and would die, but thy returnGives to their gladden’d hearts an overflowOf all the power that brooded in the urnOf their chill’d frames, and then they proudly spurnAll bands that would confine, and give to airHues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn,When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest thereRich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;

Life lingers and would die, but thy return

Gives to their gladden’d hearts an overflow

Of all the power that brooded in the urn

Of their chill’d frames, and then they proudly spurn

All bands that would confine, and give to air

Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn,

When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there

Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.

The vales are thine; and when the touch of springThrills them, and gives them gladness in thy light,They glitter as the glancing swallow’s wingDashes the water in his winding flight,And leaves behind a wave that crumbles bright,And widens outward to the pebbled shore—The vales are thine; and when they wake from night,The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o’erTheir soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.

The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring

Thrills them, and gives them gladness in thy light,

They glitter as the glancing swallow’s wing

Dashes the water in his winding flight,

And leaves behind a wave that crumbles bright,

And widens outward to the pebbled shore—

The vales are thine; and when they wake from night,

The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o’er

Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.

The hills are thine; they catch the newest beam,And gladden in thy parting, where the woodFlames out in every leaf, and drinks the streamThat flows from out thy fullness, as a floodBursts from an unknown land, and rolls the foodOf nations in its waters; so thy raysFlow and give brighter tints than ever bud,When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blazeOf many twinkling gems, as every gloss’d bough plays.

The hills are thine; they catch the newest beam,

And gladden in thy parting, where the wood

Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream

That flows from out thy fullness, as a flood

Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food

Of nations in its waters; so thy rays

Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud,

When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze

Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss’d bough plays.

Thine are the mountains, where they purely liftSnows that have never wasted in a skyWhich hath no stain; below the storm may driftIts darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by;Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there;And when below thy hues of beauty die,Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bearInto the high, dark vault a brow that still is fair.James G. Percival.

Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift

Snows that have never wasted in a sky

Which hath no stain; below the storm may drift

Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by;

Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,

Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there;

And when below thy hues of beauty die,

Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear

Into the high, dark vault a brow that still is fair.

James G. Percival.

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth;She is my Maker’s creature, therefore good.She is my mother, for she gave me birth.She is my tender nurse; she gives me food.But what’s a creature, Lord, compar’d to thee?Or what’s my mother or my nurse to me?I love the air; her dainty sweets refreshMy drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;Her shrill-mouth’d choir sustains me with their flesh,And with their polyphonian notes delight me.But what’s the air, or all the sweets that sheCan bless my soul withal, compar’d to thee?I love the sea; she is my fellow-creature—My careful purveyor; she provides me store;She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore.But, Lord of oceans, when compar’d with thee,What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?To heaven’s high city I direct my journey,Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;Mine eye, by contemplation’s great attorney,Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky.But what is heav’n, great God, compar’d to thee?Without thy presence, heaven’s no heaven to me.Without thy presence, earth gives no reflection;Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;Without thy presence, air’s a rank infection;Without thy presence, heav’n’s itself no pleasure;If not possess’d, if not enjoy’d in thee,What’s earth, or sea, or air, or heav’n to me?The highest honors that the world can boastAre subjects far too low for my desire;The brightest beams of glory are, at most,But dying sparkles of thy living fire.The loudest flames that earth can kindle, beBut nightly glow-worms if compar’d to thee.Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet—sadness:Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness.Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,Nor have they being, when compar’d with thee.In having all things, and not thee, what have I?Not having thee, what have my labors got?Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I?And having thee alone, what have I not?I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I bePossess’d of heav’n, heav’n unpossess’d of thee!Francis Quarles, 1592–1664.

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth;

She is my Maker’s creature, therefore good.

She is my mother, for she gave me birth.

She is my tender nurse; she gives me food.

But what’s a creature, Lord, compar’d to thee?

Or what’s my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air; her dainty sweets refreshMy drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;Her shrill-mouth’d choir sustains me with their flesh,And with their polyphonian notes delight me.But what’s the air, or all the sweets that sheCan bless my soul withal, compar’d to thee?

I love the air; her dainty sweets refresh

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;

Her shrill-mouth’d choir sustains me with their flesh,

And with their polyphonian notes delight me.

But what’s the air, or all the sweets that she

Can bless my soul withal, compar’d to thee?

I love the sea; she is my fellow-creature—My careful purveyor; she provides me store;She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore.But, Lord of oceans, when compar’d with thee,What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

I love the sea; she is my fellow-creature—

My careful purveyor; she provides me store;

She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;

She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore.

But, Lord of oceans, when compar’d with thee,

What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heaven’s high city I direct my journey,Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;Mine eye, by contemplation’s great attorney,Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky.But what is heav’n, great God, compar’d to thee?Without thy presence, heaven’s no heaven to me.

To heaven’s high city I direct my journey,

Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;

Mine eye, by contemplation’s great attorney,

Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky.

But what is heav’n, great God, compar’d to thee?

Without thy presence, heaven’s no heaven to me.

Without thy presence, earth gives no reflection;Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;Without thy presence, air’s a rank infection;Without thy presence, heav’n’s itself no pleasure;If not possess’d, if not enjoy’d in thee,What’s earth, or sea, or air, or heav’n to me?

Without thy presence, earth gives no reflection;

Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;

Without thy presence, air’s a rank infection;

Without thy presence, heav’n’s itself no pleasure;

If not possess’d, if not enjoy’d in thee,

What’s earth, or sea, or air, or heav’n to me?

The highest honors that the world can boastAre subjects far too low for my desire;The brightest beams of glory are, at most,But dying sparkles of thy living fire.The loudest flames that earth can kindle, beBut nightly glow-worms if compar’d to thee.

The highest honors that the world can boast

Are subjects far too low for my desire;

The brightest beams of glory are, at most,

But dying sparkles of thy living fire.

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be

But nightly glow-worms if compar’d to thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet—sadness:Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness.Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,Nor have they being, when compar’d with thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;

Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet—sadness:

Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;

Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness.

Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,

Nor have they being, when compar’d with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I?Not having thee, what have my labors got?Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I?And having thee alone, what have I not?I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I bePossess’d of heav’n, heav’n unpossess’d of thee!Francis Quarles, 1592–1664.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I?

Not having thee, what have my labors got?

Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I?

And having thee alone, what have I not?

I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be

Possess’d of heav’n, heav’n unpossess’d of thee!

Francis Quarles, 1592–1664.

FROM THE SPANISH.

The sun, 'midst shining glory now concealedUpon heaven’s highest seat,Darts straightway down upon the parched field,His fierce and burning heat;And on revolving noonday calls, that heHis flushed and glowing faceMay show the world, and, rising from the sea,Aurora’s reign displace.The wandering wind now rests his weary wings,And, hushed in silence, broods;And all the vocal choir of songsters singsAmong the whispering woods.And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe,His own dear shepherd-maid,The herd-boy leads along his flock of sheepTo the sequestered shade;Where shepherd youths and maids in secret bowers,In song and feast uniteIn joyful band, to pass the sultry hoursOf their siesta light.The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well,Beneath an oak-tree’s boughs,Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel,Now yields him to repose.All, all is calm, is silent. O how sweet,On this enameled ground,At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat,To cast your eyes around!The busy bee, that round your listening earMurmurs with drowsy hum;The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near,Moaning their mates’ sad doom.And ever in the distance her sweet songMurmurs lorn Philomel;While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolongHer love and music well.And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet,In whose bright limpid streamThe blue sky and the world of boughs are met,Mirrored in one bright gleam.And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves,The slumbering winds scarce blow,Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous waves,Follow their motion slow.These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat,Bright with a thousand flowers;These interwoven forests, where the heatIs tempered in their bowers!The dark umbrageous woods, the dense arrayOf trunks, through which there peersPerchance the town, which, in the glow of day,Like crystal light appears!These cooling grottoes! O retirement blest!Within thy calm abodeMy mind alone can from her troubles rest,With solitude and God.Thou giv’st me life, and liberty, and love,And all I now admire,And from the winter of my soul dost moveThe deep enthusiast fire.O bounteous Nature, ’tis thy healing wombAlone can peace procure!Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come,From storms of life secure.Anonymous Translation.Juan Melendez Valdes, 1754–1817.

The sun, 'midst shining glory now concealedUpon heaven’s highest seat,Darts straightway down upon the parched field,His fierce and burning heat;

The sun, 'midst shining glory now concealed

Upon heaven’s highest seat,

Darts straightway down upon the parched field,

His fierce and burning heat;

And on revolving noonday calls, that heHis flushed and glowing faceMay show the world, and, rising from the sea,Aurora’s reign displace.

And on revolving noonday calls, that he

His flushed and glowing face

May show the world, and, rising from the sea,

Aurora’s reign displace.

The wandering wind now rests his weary wings,And, hushed in silence, broods;And all the vocal choir of songsters singsAmong the whispering woods.

The wandering wind now rests his weary wings,

And, hushed in silence, broods;

And all the vocal choir of songsters sings

Among the whispering woods.

And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe,His own dear shepherd-maid,The herd-boy leads along his flock of sheepTo the sequestered shade;

And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe,

His own dear shepherd-maid,

The herd-boy leads along his flock of sheep

To the sequestered shade;

Where shepherd youths and maids in secret bowers,In song and feast uniteIn joyful band, to pass the sultry hoursOf their siesta light.

Where shepherd youths and maids in secret bowers,

In song and feast unite

In joyful band, to pass the sultry hours

Of their siesta light.

The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well,Beneath an oak-tree’s boughs,Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel,Now yields him to repose.

The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well,

Beneath an oak-tree’s boughs,

Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel,

Now yields him to repose.

All, all is calm, is silent. O how sweet,On this enameled ground,At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat,To cast your eyes around!

All, all is calm, is silent. O how sweet,

On this enameled ground,

At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat,

To cast your eyes around!

The busy bee, that round your listening earMurmurs with drowsy hum;The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near,Moaning their mates’ sad doom.

The busy bee, that round your listening ear

Murmurs with drowsy hum;

The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near,

Moaning their mates’ sad doom.

And ever in the distance her sweet songMurmurs lorn Philomel;While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolongHer love and music well.

And ever in the distance her sweet song

Murmurs lorn Philomel;

While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolong

Her love and music well.

And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet,In whose bright limpid streamThe blue sky and the world of boughs are met,Mirrored in one bright gleam.

And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet,

In whose bright limpid stream

The blue sky and the world of boughs are met,

Mirrored in one bright gleam.

And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves,The slumbering winds scarce blow,Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous waves,Follow their motion slow.

And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves,

The slumbering winds scarce blow,

Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous waves,

Follow their motion slow.

These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat,Bright with a thousand flowers;These interwoven forests, where the heatIs tempered in their bowers!

These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat,

Bright with a thousand flowers;

These interwoven forests, where the heat

Is tempered in their bowers!

The dark umbrageous woods, the dense arrayOf trunks, through which there peersPerchance the town, which, in the glow of day,Like crystal light appears!

The dark umbrageous woods, the dense array

Of trunks, through which there peers

Perchance the town, which, in the glow of day,

Like crystal light appears!

These cooling grottoes! O retirement blest!Within thy calm abodeMy mind alone can from her troubles rest,With solitude and God.

These cooling grottoes! O retirement blest!

Within thy calm abode

My mind alone can from her troubles rest,

With solitude and God.

Thou giv’st me life, and liberty, and love,And all I now admire,And from the winter of my soul dost moveThe deep enthusiast fire.

Thou giv’st me life, and liberty, and love,

And all I now admire,

And from the winter of my soul dost move

The deep enthusiast fire.

O bounteous Nature, ’tis thy healing wombAlone can peace procure!Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come,From storms of life secure.Anonymous Translation.Juan Melendez Valdes, 1754–1817.

O bounteous Nature, ’tis thy healing womb

Alone can peace procure!

Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come,

From storms of life secure.

Anonymous Translation.Juan Melendez Valdes, 1754–1817.

J.W. ORR, Sc.

SUMMER DREAM.

FROM THE GERMAN MINNESINGERS.

’Twas summer; through the spring grassThe joyous flowers upsprang;The birds in all their different tribesLoud in the woodlands sang:Then forth I went, and wandered farThe wide, green meadow o’er—Where cool and clear the fountain play’d—There strayed I in that hour.Roaming on, the nightingaleSang sweetly in my ear;And by the greenwood’s shady side,A dream came to me there.Fast by the fountain, where bright flowersOf sparkling hue we see;Close sheltered from the summer heat,That vision came to me.All care was banished, and reposeCame o’er my wearied breast;And kingdoms seemed to wait on me,For I was with the blest.Yet while it seemed as if away,My spirit soared on high,And in the boundless joys of heavenWas rapp’d in ecstasy;E’en then my body revel’d stillIn earth’s festivity;And surely never was a dreamSo sweet as this to me.Thus I dreamed on, and might have dweltStill on that rapturous dream,When hark! a raven’s luckless note—(Sooth ’twas a direful scream!)Broke up the vision of delight.Instant my joy was past;O had a stone but met my hand,That hour had been his last!Translation ofE. Taylor.Walther von der Vogelweide,about 1150.

’Twas summer; through the spring grass

The joyous flowers upsprang;

The birds in all their different tribes

Loud in the woodlands sang:

Then forth I went, and wandered far

The wide, green meadow o’er—

Where cool and clear the fountain play’d—

There strayed I in that hour.

Roaming on, the nightingaleSang sweetly in my ear;And by the greenwood’s shady side,A dream came to me there.Fast by the fountain, where bright flowersOf sparkling hue we see;Close sheltered from the summer heat,That vision came to me.

Roaming on, the nightingale

Sang sweetly in my ear;

And by the greenwood’s shady side,

A dream came to me there.

Fast by the fountain, where bright flowers

Of sparkling hue we see;

Close sheltered from the summer heat,

That vision came to me.

All care was banished, and reposeCame o’er my wearied breast;And kingdoms seemed to wait on me,For I was with the blest.

All care was banished, and repose

Came o’er my wearied breast;

And kingdoms seemed to wait on me,

For I was with the blest.

Yet while it seemed as if away,My spirit soared on high,And in the boundless joys of heavenWas rapp’d in ecstasy;E’en then my body revel’d stillIn earth’s festivity;And surely never was a dreamSo sweet as this to me.

Yet while it seemed as if away,

My spirit soared on high,

And in the boundless joys of heaven

Was rapp’d in ecstasy;

E’en then my body revel’d still

In earth’s festivity;

And surely never was a dream

So sweet as this to me.

Thus I dreamed on, and might have dweltStill on that rapturous dream,When hark! a raven’s luckless note—(Sooth ’twas a direful scream!)Broke up the vision of delight.Instant my joy was past;O had a stone but met my hand,That hour had been his last!Translation ofE. Taylor.Walther von der Vogelweide,about 1150.

Thus I dreamed on, and might have dwelt

Still on that rapturous dream,

When hark! a raven’s luckless note—

(Sooth ’twas a direful scream!)

Broke up the vision of delight.

Instant my joy was past;

O had a stone but met my hand,

That hour had been his last!

Translation ofE. Taylor.Walther von der Vogelweide,about 1150.

The spring’s gay promise melted into thee,Fair summer! and thy gentle reign is here;The emerald robes are on each leafy tree;In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear;And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reign—They leap in music midst thy bright domain.The gales that wander from the unclouded westAre burden’d with the breath of countless fields;They teem with incense from the green earth’s breast,That up to heaven its grateful odor yields,Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird,By nature’s aspect into rapture stirr’d.In such a scene the sun-illumin’d heartBounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell,When through its bars the morning glories dart,And forest anthems in his hearing swell;And like the heaving of the voiceful sea,His panting bosom labors to be free.Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky,O summer! in my inmost soul ariseUplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply,And the bland air with its soft melodies;Till basking in some vision’s glorious ray,I long for eagle’s plumes to flee away.I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside,And the impure, unholy thoughts that clingTo the sad bosom, torn with care and pride;I would soar upward, on unfetter’d wing,Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies,Where the high fount of summer brightness lies!Willis Gaylord Clark, 1810–1841.

The spring’s gay promise melted into thee,

Fair summer! and thy gentle reign is here;

The emerald robes are on each leafy tree;

In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear;

And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reign—

They leap in music midst thy bright domain.

The gales that wander from the unclouded westAre burden’d with the breath of countless fields;They teem with incense from the green earth’s breast,That up to heaven its grateful odor yields,Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird,By nature’s aspect into rapture stirr’d.

The gales that wander from the unclouded west

Are burden’d with the breath of countless fields;

They teem with incense from the green earth’s breast,

That up to heaven its grateful odor yields,

Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird,

By nature’s aspect into rapture stirr’d.

In such a scene the sun-illumin’d heartBounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell,When through its bars the morning glories dart,And forest anthems in his hearing swell;And like the heaving of the voiceful sea,His panting bosom labors to be free.

In such a scene the sun-illumin’d heart

Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell,

When through its bars the morning glories dart,

And forest anthems in his hearing swell;

And like the heaving of the voiceful sea,

His panting bosom labors to be free.

Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky,O summer! in my inmost soul ariseUplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply,And the bland air with its soft melodies;Till basking in some vision’s glorious ray,I long for eagle’s plumes to flee away.

Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky,

O summer! in my inmost soul arise

Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply,

And the bland air with its soft melodies;

Till basking in some vision’s glorious ray,

I long for eagle’s plumes to flee away.

I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside,And the impure, unholy thoughts that clingTo the sad bosom, torn with care and pride;I would soar upward, on unfetter’d wing,Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies,Where the high fount of summer brightness lies!Willis Gaylord Clark, 1810–1841.

I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside,

And the impure, unholy thoughts that cling

To the sad bosom, torn with care and pride;

I would soar upward, on unfetter’d wing,

Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies,

Where the high fount of summer brightness lies!

Willis Gaylord Clark, 1810–1841.

PORTUGUESE CANZONET.

OF CAMOENS.

Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,Cheerily the linnets sing;Winds are soft, and skies serene;Time, however, soon shall throw,Winter’s snow,O’er the buxom breast of spring!Hope that buds in lover’s heart,Lives not through the scorn of years;Time makes love itself depart;Time and scorn congeal the mind—Looks unkind—Freeze affection’s warmest tears.Time shall make the bushes green;Time dissolve the winter snow;Winds be soft, and skies serene;Linnets sing their wonted strain.But again,Blighted love shall never blow!Translated byViscount Strangford.Luis de Camõens, 1524–1579.

Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,Cheerily the linnets sing;Winds are soft, and skies serene;Time, however, soon shall throw,Winter’s snow,O’er the buxom breast of spring!

Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,

Cheerily the linnets sing;

Winds are soft, and skies serene;

Time, however, soon shall throw,

Winter’s snow,

O’er the buxom breast of spring!

Hope that buds in lover’s heart,Lives not through the scorn of years;Time makes love itself depart;Time and scorn congeal the mind—Looks unkind—Freeze affection’s warmest tears.

Hope that buds in lover’s heart,

Lives not through the scorn of years;

Time makes love itself depart;

Time and scorn congeal the mind—

Looks unkind—

Freeze affection’s warmest tears.

Time shall make the bushes green;Time dissolve the winter snow;Winds be soft, and skies serene;Linnets sing their wonted strain.But again,Blighted love shall never blow!Translated byViscount Strangford.Luis de Camõens, 1524–1579.

Time shall make the bushes green;

Time dissolve the winter snow;

Winds be soft, and skies serene;

Linnets sing their wonted strain.

But again,

Blighted love shall never blow!

Translated byViscount Strangford.Luis de Camõens, 1524–1579.

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