Midsummer.

—John Townsend Trowbridge.

AROUND this lovely valley rise

The purple hills of Paradise.

 

O, softly on yon banks of haze

Her rosy face the summer lays!

 

Becalmed along the azure sky,

The argosies of cloudland lie,

Whose shores, with many a shining rift,

Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

 

Through all the long midsummer-day

The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.

I seek the coolest sheltered seat

Just where the field and forest meet,—

Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland,

The ancient oaks austere and grand,

And fringy roots and pebbles fret

The ripples of the rivulet.

 

I watch the mowers as they go

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row;

With even stroke their scythes they swing,

In tune their merry whetstones ring;

Behind the nimble youngsters run

And toss the thick swaths in the sun;

The cattle graze; while, warm and still,

Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill,

And bright, when summer breezes break,

The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

 

The butterfly and bumble-bee

Come to the pleasant woods with me;

Quickly before me runs the quail,

The chickens skulk behind the rail,

High up the lone wood-pigeon sits,

And the woodpecker pecks and flits.

Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,

The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,

The swarming insects drone and hum,

The partridge beats his throbbing drum.

The squirrel leaps among the boughs,

And chatters in his leafy house.

The oriole flashes by; and, look!

Into the mirror of the brook,

Where the vain blue-bird trims his coat,

Two tiny feathers fall and float.

 

As silently, as tenderly,

The down of peace descends on me.

Oh, this is peace! I have no need

Of friend to talk, of book to read:

A dear Companion here abides;

Close to my thrilling heart He hides;

The holy silence is His voice:

I lie and listen, and rejoice.

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