Of The Day Estivall.

—Alexander Hume.

Thanks for a Summer Day.

O PERFITE light, quhilk schaid away,
The darkenes from the light,
And set a ruler ou’r the day,
Ane uther ou’r the night.

Thy glorie when the day foorth flies,
Mair viuely dois appeare,
Nor at midday unto our eyes,
The shining Sun is cleare.

The shaddow of the earth anon,
Remooues and drawes by,
Sine in the East, when it is gon,
Appeares a clearer sky.

Quhilk Sunne perceaues the little larks,
The lapwing and the snyp,
And tunes their sangs like natures clarks,
Ou’r midow, mure, and stryp.

Bot euerie bais’d nocturnall beast,
Na langer may abide,
They hy away baith maist and least,
Them selues in houis to hide.

They dread the day fra thay it see,
And from the sight of men.
To saits, and couars fast they flee,
As Lyons to their den.

Oure Hemisphere is poleist clein,
And lightened more and more,
While euerie thing be clearely sein,
Quhilk seemed dim before.

Except the glistering astres bright,
Which all the night were cleere,
Offusked with a greater light,
Na langer dois appeare.

The golden globe incontinent,
Sets up his shining head,
And ou’r the earth and firmament,
Displayes his beims abread.

For ioy the birds with boulden throts,
Agains his visage shein,
Takes up their kindelie musicke nots,
In woods and gardens grein.

Up braids the carefull husbandman,
His comes, and vines to see,
And euerie tymous artisan,
In buith worke busilie.

The pastor quits the slouthfull sleepe,
And passis forth with speede,
His little camow-nosed sheepe,
And rowtting kie to feede.

The passenger from perrels sure,
Gangs gladly foorth the way:
Breife, everie liuing creature,
Takes comfort of the day,

The subtile mottie rayons light,
At rifts thay are in wonne,
The glansing thains, and vitre bright,
Resplends against the sunne.

The dew upon the tender crops,
Lyke pearles white and round,
Or like to melted silver drops,
Refreshes all the ground.

The mystie rocke, the clouds of raine,
From tops of mountaines skails,
Cleare are the highest hils and plaine,
The vapors takes the vails.

Begaried is the saphire pend,
With spraings of skarlet hew,
And preciously from end till end,
Damasked white and blew.

The ample heauen of fabrik sure,
In cleannes dois surpas,
The chrystall and the siluer pure,
Or clearest poleist glas.

The time sa tranquill is and still,
That na where sall ye find,
Saife on ane high, and barren hill,
Ane aire of peeping wind.

All trees and simples great and small,
That balmie leife do beir,
Nor thay were painted on a wall,
Na mair they moue or steir.

Calme is the deepe, and purpour se,
Yee smuther nor the sand,
The wals that woltring wont to be,
Are stable like the land.

Sa silent is the cessile air,
That euery cry and call,
The hils, and dails, and forrest fair,
Againe repeates them all.

The riuers fresh, the callor streames,
Ou’r rockes can softlie rin,
The water cleare like chrystall seames,
And makes a pleasant din.

The fields, and earthly superfice,
With verdure greene is spread,
And naturallie but artifice,
In partie coulors cled.

The flurishes and fragrant flowres,
Throw Phœbus fostring heit,
Refresht with dew and siluer showres,
Casts up ane odor sweit.

The clogged busie humming beis,
That neuer thinks to drowne,
On flowers and nourishes of treis,
Collects their liquor browne.

The Sunne maist like a speedie post,
With ardent course ascends,
The beautie of the heauenly host,
Up to our ȝenith tends.

Nocht guided be na Phaeton,
Nor trained in a chyre,
Bot be the high and haly On,
Quhilk dois all where impire.

The burning beims downe from his face,
Sa fervently can beat:
That man and beast now seekes a place
To saue them fra the heat.

The brethles flocks drawes to the shade,
And frechure of their fald,
The startling nolt as they were made,
Runnes to the rivers cald.

The heards beneath some leaffie trie,
Amids the flowers they lie,
The stabill ships upon the sey,
Tends up their sails to drie.

The hart, the hynd, and fallow deare,
Are tapisht at their rest,
The foules and birdes that made the beir,
Prepares their prettie nest.

The rayons dures descending downe,
All kindlis in a gleid,
In cittie nor in borroughstowne,
May nane set foorth their heid.

Back from the blew paymented whun,
And from ilk plaister wall:
The hote reflexing of the sun,
Inflams the aire and all.

The labowrers that timellie raise
All wearie faint and weake:
For heate downe to their houses gais,
Noone-meate and sleepe to take.

The callowr wine in caue is sought,
Mens brothing breists to cule:
The water cald and cleare is brought,
And sallets steipt in ule.

Sume plucks the honie plowm and peare,
The cherrie and the pesche,
Sume likes the reamand London beare,
The bodie to refresh.

Forth of their skepps some raging bees,
Lyes out and will not cast,
Some uther swarmes hyves on the trees,
In knots togidder fast.

The corbeis, and the kekling kais,
May scarce the heate abide,
Halks prunȝeis on the sunnie brais,
And wedders back, and side.

With gilted eyes and open wings,
The cock his courage shawes,
With claps of ioy his breast he dings,
And twentie times he crawes.

The dow with whisling wings sa blew,
The winds can fast collect,
Hir pourpour pennes turnes mony hew,
Against the sunne direct.

Now noone is went, gaine is mid-day,
The heat dois slake at last,
The sunne descends downe west away,
Fra three of clock be past.

A little cule of braithing wind,
Now softly can arise,
The warks throw heate that lay behind,
Now men may enterprise.

Furth fairis the flocks to seeke their fude,
On euerie hill and plaine,
Ilk labourer as he thinks gude,
Steppes to his turne againe.

The rayons of the Sunne we see,
Diminish in their strength,
The schad of euerie towre and tree,
Extended is in length.

Great is the calme for euerie quhair,
The wind is sitten downe,
The reik thrawes right up in the air,
From everie towre and towne.

Their firdoning the bony birds,
In banks they do begin,
With pipes of reides the iolie hirds,
Halds up the mirrie din.

The Maveis and the Philomeen,
The Stirling whissilles lowd,
The Cuschetts on the branches green,
Full quietly they crowd.

The gloming comes the day is spent,
The Sun goes out of sight,
And painted is the Occident,
With pourpour sanguine bright.

The Skarlet nor the golden threid,
Who would their beawtie trie,
Are nathing like the colour reid,
And beautie of the sky.

Our West Horiȝon circuler,
Fra time the Sunne be set,
Is all with rubies (as it wer)
Or Rosis reid ou’rfret.

What pleasour were to walke and see,
Endlang a riuer cleare,
The perfite forme of euerie tree,
Within the deepe appeare?

The Salmon out of cruifs and creils
Up hailed into skowts,
The bels, and circles on the weills,
Throw lowpping of the trouts.

O: then it were a seemely thing,
While all is still and calme,
The praise of God to play and sing,
With cornet and with shalme.

Bot now the hirds with mony schout,
Cals vther be their name,
Ga, Billie, turne our gude about,
Now time is to go hame.

With bellie fow the beastes beliue,
Are turned fra the come,
Quhilk soberly they hameward driue,
With pipe and lilting home.

Throw all the land great is the gild,
Of rustik folks that crie,
Of bleiting sheepe fra they be fild,
Of calues and rowting ky.

All labourers drawes hame at even,
And can till uther say,
Thankes to the gracious God of heauen,
Quhilk send this summer day.


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