Half hid in rustling reeds and scrambling grass, Or stepping stones stride o’er the narrow sloughs Which maidens daily cross to milk their cows; There they in artless glee for minnows run, And wade and dabble past the setting sun; Chasing the struttle o’er the shallow tide, And flat stones turning up where gudgeons hide. All former hopes their ill success delay’d, In this new change they fancy well repaid. And thus they wade, and chatter o’er their joys Till night, unlook’d-for, young success destroys, Drives home the sons of solitude and streams, And stops uncloy’d hope’s ever-fresh’ning dreams. They then, like school-boys that at truant play, In sloomy fear lounge on their homeward way, And inly tremble, as they gain the town, Where chastisement awaits with many a frown, And hazel twigs, in readiness prepar’d, For their long absence brings a meet reward. JUNE Now Summer is in flower, and Nature’s hum Is never silent round her bounteous bloom; Insects, as small as dust, have never done With glitt’ring dance, and reeling in the sun; And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee, Are never weary of their melody. Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine, Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak’d woodbine, That lift athirst their slender throated flowers, Agape for dew-fall, and for honey showers; These o’er each bush in sweet disorder run, And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun. The mottled spider, at eve’s leisure, weaves His webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves, Which ev’ry morning meet the poet’s eye, Like fairies’ dew-wet dresses hung to dry. The wheat swells into ear, and hides below The May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show, Leaving, a school-boy’s height, in snugger rest, The leveret’s seat, and lark, and partridge nest. The mowers now bend o’er the beaded grass, Where oft the gipsy’s hungry journeying ass Will turn his wishes from the meadow paths, List’ning the rustle of the falling swaths. The ploughman sweats along the fallow vales And down the sun-crack’d furrow slowly trails; Oft seeking, when athirst, the brook’s supply, Where, brushing eagerly the bushes by For coolest water, he disturbs the rest Of ring-dove, brooding o’er its idle nest. The shepherd’s leisure hours are over now; No more he loiters ’neath the hedge-row bough, On shadow-pillowed banks and lolling stile; The wilds must lose their summer friend awhile. With whistle, barking dogs, and chiding scold, He drives the bleating sheep from fallow fold To wash-pools, where the willow shadows lean, Dashing them in, their stained coats to clean, Then, on the sunny sward, when dry again, He brings them homeward to the clipping pen, Of hurdles, form’d where elm or sycamore