to breathe the very freshness of the living landscape. He is describing the hottest hours of noon: Thrice happy he! who on the sunless side Ye ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep! Summer. If any thing were wanting to paint in yet stronger terms the intense gratification which, with other adjuncts of a similar kind, umbrage dark and deep as this affords, when Nature pants as it were beneath the dazzling deluge, no where can it be better drawn than from a sketch presented to us by Mr. Gisborne, who, in describing a peasant boy watching unsheltered his master's herd during the fervor of a summer's noon, represents him, overcome by the sultriness of the hour, as falling asleep and dreaming of what is directly opposed to the throbbing heat which burns within his bosom. It is a delineation full of merit, and illustrated in a manner which touches some of the finest feelings of the heart. Panting, bare-headed, and with outstretch'd arms It is, however, where amid the twilight of the grove or wood, we meet the lake, the cave, the gushing stream, or murmuring fountain, that our triumph over the fervors of the summernoon becomes complete; and we are tempted to compare our happy lot, not only with the situation of those who are necessitated to labour beneath the blaze of an European sun, but with those who are condemned to endure the tenfold horrors of a torrid clime. It is a comparison of this kind which has rendered the following lines so pre-eminently striking, especially towards the close, where the personification of thirst introduces a thought that speaks to us in the very voice of nature. But ever against restless heat, Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay, Sore sighs the weary swain, beneath In vain, of labour short reprieve ! WARTON.* But not only does a retreat of this kind afford the most delicious refreshment to the languid and over-heated functions of the body, it communicates also to the intellectual powers a luxury of a still higher description, leading to those gentle thoughts and beautiful imaginings which dissipate for a time the cares and turmoils of a restless world, and woo the breast to peace and * Ode on the Approach of Summer. harmony. Who that has once enjoyed the tranquil blessings of an hour like this, is not ready to exclaim with the philosophic enthusiasm of Lucretius, Si non aurea sunt juvenum simulacra per ædeis What, though the dome be wanting, whose proud walls A thousand lamps irradiate, propt sublime By frolic forms of youths in massy gold, Flinging their splendours o'er the midnight feast; Though gold and silver blaze not o'er the board, Nor music echo round the gaudy roof? Yet listless laid the velvet grass along Near gliding streams, by shadowy trees o'er-arch'd, pomps we need not. Such Good. |