Ode to Summer

Hail, gentle Summer to this isle! Where Nature's fairest beauties smile, And breathe in every plain; 'Tis thine to bid each flower display, And open to the eye of day The glories of its reign.

While yon few sheep enjoy the breeze, That softly dies upon the trees, And rest beneath the shade; This pipe, which Damon gave, shall raise Its rural notes to sing thy praise, And ask the Muse's aid.

Diana's ear shall catch the sound, And all the Nymphs that sport around The vale, or upland lawn; The Nymphs, that o'er the mountain's brow, Pursue the lightly-bounding roe, Or chase the flying fawn.

Even now, perchance, some cool retreat Defends the lovely train from heat, And Phoebus' noontide beam; Perchance, they twine the flowery crown On beds of roses, soft as down, Beside the winding stream.

Delightful season! every mead With thy fair robe of plenty spread, To thee that plenty owes; The laughing fields with joy declare, And whisper all in reason's ear, From whence that plenty flows.

Happy the man, whose vessel glides, Safe and unhurt by Passion's tides, Nor courts the gusts of praise! He sails with even, steady pace, While Virtue's full-blown beauties grace The Summer of his days.