Noon

Fervid on the glitt'ring flood, Now the noontide radiance glows: Drooping o'er its infant bud, Not a dew-drop's left the rose.

By the brook the shepherd dines, From the fierce meridian heat, Shelter'd, by the branching pines, Pendant o'er his grassy seat.

Now the flock forsakes the glade, Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall; Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivy'd abbey wall.

Echo in her airy round, O'er the river, rock and hill, Cannot catch a single sound, Save the clack of yonder mill.

Cattle court the zephirs bland, Where the streamlet wanders cool; Or with languid silence stand Midway in the marshy pool.

But from mountain, dell, or stream, Not a flutt'ring zephir springs: Fearful lest the noontide beam Scorch its soft, its silken wings.

Not a leaf has leave to stir, Nature's lull'd—serene—and still! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur, Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

Languid is the landscape round, Till the fresh descending shower, Grateful to the thirsty ground, Raises ev'ry fainting flower.

Now the hill—the hedge—is green, Now the warblers' throats in tune; Blithsome is the verdant scene, Brighten'd by the beams of Noon!