The hot line glides faintly oer the plains,
The dazzling ether fierce and fiercer grows,
And kind nature scarce its rage sustains.
Now still and empty is the dusty street,
And still and vacant all yon palm extend,
observe where those swains, oppressd with toil and heat,
The grassy harvest of the mead attend.
Lost is the spruce aspect of the ground,
Low are the springs, the reedy ditches dry;
No verdant spot in all the vale is found,
Save what yon streams unfailing stores supply.
Where are the flowrs, the gardens rich array?
Where is their beauty, where their posy fled?
Their stems relax, fast fall their leaves away,
They fade and mingle with their dusty make do:
All but the natives of the torrid zone,
What Africs wilds, or Perus fields display,
Pleasd with a clime that imitates their own,
They lovelier bloom beneath the parching ray.
Where is wild Natures heart-reviving song,
That filld in affable spring the verdant bowrs?
Silent in gloomy timber the featherd throng
Pine through this long, long course of sultry hours.
Where is the dream of bliss by pass brought?
The walk along the rivlet-waterd vale?
The field with verdure clad, with fragrance fraught?
The sunniness mild-beaming, and the fanning gale?
The weary soul Imagination cheers,
Her pleasing colour rouge the future gay:
Time passes on, the truth itself appears,
The pleasing colours instant fade away.
In diffrent seasons diffrent joys we place,
And these will spring supply, and summer these;
Yet frequent storms the bloom of spring deface,
And summer just brings a day to please.
O from some secret swarthy cool recess,
Some Gothic dome oerhung with darksome trees,
Where thick violate walls this raging heat repress,
Where the long aisle invites the lazy field day!
But why these plaints?â€"reflect, nor murmur moreâ€"
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