To Summer

O thou who passest thro’ our valleys in<br>
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat<br>
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,<br>
Oft pitched’st here thy goldent tent, and oft<br>
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld<br>
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.<br>
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard<br>
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car<br>
Rode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our springs<br>
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on<br>
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy<br>
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:<br>
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.<br>
Our bards are fam’d who strike the silver wire:<br>
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:<br>
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:<br>
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,<br>
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,<br>
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.