How sweet I've wander'd bosom-deep in grain,
When Summer's mellowing pencil sweeps the shade

Of ripening tinges o'er the chequer'd plain :
Light tawny oat-lands with a yellow blade;
And bearded corn like armies in parade;

Beans lightly scorch'd, that still preserve their green;
And nodding lands of wheat in bleachy brown;
And streaking banks, where many a maid and clown
Contrast a sweetness to the rural scene,-

Forming the little haycocks up and down;

While o'er the face of Nature softly swept

The lingering wind, mixing the brown and green

So sweet that shepherds from their bowers have crept, And stood delighted musing o'er the scene.

Clare.

JULY.

OUD is the Summer's busy song;
The smallest breeze can find a tongue,
While insects of each tiny size

Grow teasing with their melodies,

Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day dies still as death. The busy noise of man and brute Is on a sudden lost and mute; Even the brook that leaps along Seems weary of its bubbling song, And so soft its waters creep, Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep; The cricket on its bank is dumb, The very flies forget to hum; And, save the wagon rocking round, The landscape sleeps without a sound. The breeze is stopp'd, the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that danceth now;

The taller grass upon the hill,

And spider's threads, are standing still;

The feathers dropp'd from moor-hen's wing,

Which to the water's surface cling,

Are steadfast, and as heavy seem

As stones beneath them in the stream;
Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs
Unruffled keep their seedy crowns;

And in the oven-heated air

Not one light thing is floating there,

Save that to the earnest eye

The restless heat seems twittering by.

Refreshment o'er my soothed sense;
Nor tangled woodbine's balmy bloom,
Nor grass besprent to breathe perfume:
Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet:
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote,
Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cot;
Rustle the breezes lightly borne

O'er deep embattled ears of corn:

Round ancient elm, with humming noise,
Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.
Meantime, a thousand dyes invest
The ruby chambers of the west!
That all aslant the village tower
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with the level-streaming rays,
Far seen its arched windows blaze:
And the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet tints, and gleams of light:
So that the gay scene by degrees
Bathes my blithe heart in ecstasies ;
And Fancy to my ravish'd sight
Portrays her kindred visions bright.
At length the parting light subdues
My soften'd soul to calmer views,
And fainter shapes of pensive joy,
As twilight dawns, my mind employ,
Till from the path I fondly stray
In musings lapt, nor heed the way;
Wandering through the landscape still,
Till Melancholy has her fill ;

And on each moss-wove border damp,
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.

Warton.