A drowzy indolence now hangs on all, And ev'ry creature seeks some place of rest, Screen'd from the violence of the oppressive heat. No scatter'd flocks are seen upon the lawn, Nor chirping birds among the bushes heard. Within the narrow shadow of the cot The sleepy dog lies stretched on his side, Nor heeds the heavy-footed passenger; At noise of feet but half his eye-lid lifts, Then gives a feeble growl, and sleeps again: Whilst puss, less nice, e'en in the scorching window, On t'other side, sits winking to the sun. No sound is heard but humming of the bee, For she alone retires not from her labour, Nor leaves a meadow flower unsought for gain. Heavy and slow so pass the mid-day hours, Till gently bending on the ridge's top, The heavy seeded grass begins to wave, And the high branches of the slender poplar Shiver aloft in air their rustling leaves. Cool breaths the rising breeze, and with it wakes The worn out spirit from its state of stupor. The lazy boy springs from his mossy bed, To chace the gaudy tempting butterfly, Who spreading on the grass its mealy wings, Oft lights within his reach, e'en at his seer, Yet still eludes his grasp, and o'er his head Light hov'ring round, or mounted high in air Temps his young eye, and wearies out his limbs. The drouzy dog, who feels the kindly breeze That passing o'er him, lifts his shaggy ear, Begins to stretch him, on his legs half-rais'd, Till fully wak'd, with bristling cock'd-up tail, He makes the village echo to his bark. But let us not forget the busy maid Who, by the side of the clear pebly stream, Spreads out her snowy linens to the sun, And sheds with lib'ral hand the chrystal show'r O'er many a fav'rite piece of fair attire, Revolving in her mind her gay appearance In all this dress, at some approaching fair. The dimpling half-check'd smile, and mutt'ring lip Betray the secret workings of her fancy, And flattering thoughts of the complacent mind. There little vagrant bands of truant boys Amongst the bushes try their harmless tricks; Whilst some a sporting in the shallow stream Toss up the lashing water round their heads, Or strive with wily art to catch the trout, Or 'twixt their fingers grasp the slipp'ry eel. The shepherd-boy sits singing on the bank, To pass away the weary lonely hours, Weaving with art his little crown of rushes, A guiltless easy crown that brings no care, Which having made he places on his head, And leaps and skips about, and bawls full loud To some companion, lonely as himself, Far in the distant field; or else delighted To hear the echo'd sound of his own voice Returning answer from the neighboring rock, Holds no unpleasing converse with himself.