Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851. Various

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      Echo no more returns the cheerful sound

      Of sharpening scythe; the mower, sinking, heaps

      O'er him the humid hay, with flowers perfum'd;

      And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard

      Through the dumb mead. Distressful nature pants.

      The very streams look languid from afar;

      Or, through the unshelter'd glade, impatient, seem

      To hurl into the covert of the grove.

      All conquering heat, oh, intermit thy wrath!

      And on my throbbing temples potent thus

      Beam not so fierce! Incessant still you flow,

      And still another fervent flood succeeds,

      Pour'd on the head profuse. In vain I sigh,

      And restless turn, and look around for night:

      Night is far off; and hotter hours approach.

      Thrice-happy be! who on the sunless side

      Of a romantic mountain, forest-crown'd,

      Beneath the whole-collected shade reclines,

      Or in the gelid caverns, woodbine-wrought,

      And fresh bedew'd with ever-spouting streams,

      Sits coolly calm, while all the world without,

      Unsatisfied and sick, tosses in noon.

      Emblem instructive of the virtuous man,

      Who keeps his temper'd mind serene, and pure,

      And every passion aptly harmoniz'd,

      Amid a jarring world with vice inflam'd.

      Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail!

      Ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks!

      Ye ashes wild, responding o'er the steep!

      Delicious is your shelter to the soul,

      As to the hunted hart the sallying spring,

      Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides

      Laves, as he floats along the herbag'd brink.

      Cool, through the nerves, your pleasing comfort glides;

      The heart beats glad; the fresh-expanded eye

      And ear resume their watch; the sinews knit;

      And life shoots swift through all the lighten'd limbs.

      Around the adjoining brook that purls along

      The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock,

      Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool,

      Now starting to a sudden stream, and now

      Gently diffus'd into a limpid plain,

      A various group the herds and flocks compose

      Rural confusion! On the grassy bank

      Some ruminating lie; while others stand

      Half in the flood, and often bending sip

      The circling surface. In the middle droops

      The strong laborious ox, of honest front,

      Which incompos'd he shakes; and from his sides

      The troublous insects lashes with his tail,

      Returning still. Amid his subjects safe,

      Slumbers the monarch swain: his careless arm

      Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustain'd:

      Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands fill'd;

      There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.

      Light fly his slumbers, if perchance a flight

      Of angry gadflies fasten on the herd;

      That startling scatters from the shallow brook,

      In search of lavish stream. Tossing the foam,

      They scorn the keeper's voice, and scour the plain

      Through all the bright severity of noon;

      While, from their laboring breasts, a hollow moan

      Proceeding, runs low-bellowing round the hills.

      Oft in this season too the horse, provok'd,

      While his big sinews full of spirits swell,

      Trembling with vigor, in the heat of blood,

      Springs the high fence; and, o'er the field effus'd,

      Darts on the gloomy flood, with steadfast eye,

      And heart estrang'd to fear: his nervous chest,

      Luxuriant and erect, the seat of strength!

      Bears down the opposing stream; quenchless his thirst,

      He takes the river at redoubled draughts:

      And with wide nostrils, snorting, skims the wave.

      Still let me pierce into the midnight depth

      Of yonder grove, of wildest, largest growth;

      That, forming high in air a woodland quire,

      Nods o'er the mount beneath. At every step,

      Solemn and slow, the shadows blacker fall,

      And all is awful listening gloom around.

      These are the haunts of meditation, these

      The scenes where ancient bards the inspiring breath,

      Ecstatic, felt: and, from this world retir'd.

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