Scotish Descriptive Poems/The Day Estival, a Poem

by Alexander Hume

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OF THE

 

DAY ESTIVAL;

 

A POEM.

 

 

O perfect light! which shed away
 The darkness from the light,
And left one ruler o'er the day,
 Another o'er the night.

Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
 More vively does appear;
Nor at mid-day unto our eyes
 The shining sun is clear.

The shadow of the earth anone
 Removes and drawis by;
Syne in the East, when it is gone,
 Appears a clearer sky:

Which soon perceives the little larks,
 The lapwing and the snipe;
And tunes their songs, like nature's clerks,
 Our meadow, moor, and stripe.

But every bold nocturnal beast
 No longer may abide;
They hie away, both most and least,
 Themselves in hows to hide.

They dread the day from they it see,
 And from the sight of men,
To seats and covers fast they flee,
 And lions to their den.

Our hemisphere is polished clean,
 And lightened more and more;
While every thing be clearly seen
 Which seemed dim before;

Except the glittering asters bright,
 Which all the night were clear,
Offusked with a greater light,
 No longer does appear.

The golden globe incontinent
 Sets up his shining head,
And over the earth and firmament
 Displays his beams abreade.

For joy the birds, with boldin throats,
 Against his visage sheen,
Takes up their kindly music-notes
 In woods and gardens green:

Upbraids the careful husbandman,
 His corns and vines to see;
And every timeous artisan
 In booth works merrily.

The pastor quits his slothful sleep,
 And passes forth with speed,
His little camow-nosed sheep,
 And rowting kye to feed.

The passenger, from perils sure,
 Gangs gladly forth the way;
Brief, every living creature
 Takes comfort of the day.

The subtile motty rayons light
 At rifts they are inwonne;
The glancing thaines and vitre bright
 Resplends against the sun.

The dew upon the tender crops,
 Like pearls white and round,
Or like to melted silver drops,
 Refreshes all the ground.

The misty rock, the clouds of rain
 From tops of mountains skails;
Clear are the highest hills, and plain;
 The vapour takes the vales.

Begaried is the sapphire pend
 With spraings of scarlet hue,
And preciously, from end to end,
 Damasked white and blue.

The ample heaven, of fabric sure,
 In clearness does surpass
The chrystal and the silver pure,
 Or clearest polished glass.

The time so tranquill is and still,
 That no where shall ye find,
Save on a high and barren hill,
 An air of passing wind.

All trees and simples great and small
 That balmy leaf do bear,
Nor they were painted on a wall
 No more they move or stir.

Calm is the deep and purpour sea,
 Yea smoother nor the sand;
The wallis, that weltering wont to be,
 Are stable like the land.

So silent is the cessile air,
 That every cry and call,
The hills and dales, the forest fair,
 Again repeats them all.

The rivers fresh, the callour streams,
 O'er rocks can softly rin;
The water clear, like crystal streams,
 And makes a pleasant din.

The fields, and earthly superfice,
 With verdure green is spread,
And naturally, but artifice,
 In party-colours clad.

The flourishes and fragrant flowers,
 Through Phœbus' fostering heat,
Refreshed with dew and silver showers,
 Cast up an odour sweet.

The clogged busy bumming bees,
 That never thinks to drown,
On flowers and flourishes of trees
 Collects their liquor brown.

The sun, most like a speedy post,
 With ardent course ascends;
The beauty of the heavenly host
 Up to our zenith tends.

Not guided by no Phaëton,
 Nor trained in a chair;
But by the high and holy One
 Whilk does all where impyre.

The burning beams down from his face
 So fervently can beat,
That man and beast now seeks a place
 To save them from the heat.

The breathless flocks draws to the shade,
 And freshure of the fold;
The startling nolt, as they were mad,
 Run to the river cold.

The herds beneath some leafy tree,
 Amid the flowers they lie;
The stable ships upon the sea
 Tends up their sails to dry.

The hart, the hind, the fallow deer,
 Are tapished at their rest;
The fowls, and birds that made the bir,
 Prepares their pretty nest.

The rayons dures descending down,
 All kindles in a gleed;
In cottage nor in borrows town
 May none set forth their head.

Back from the blue paymented whin,
 And from each plaster wall,
The hot reflecting of the sun
 Inflames the air and all.

The labourers that timely rose,
 All weary, faint and weak,
For heat, down to their houses goes,
 Noon-meate and sleep to take.

The callour wind in caves is sought,
 Mens brothing breasts to cool;
The water cold and clear is brought,
 And sallads steept in ule.

Some plucks the honey plumbs and pear,
 The cherry and the pesch;
Some likes the reamand London beer,
 Their body to refresh.

Forth of their skeps some raging bees
 Lies out, and will not cast;
Some other swarmes hives on the trees,
 In knots together fast

The korbies and the kekling kaes
 May scarce the heat abide;
Hawks prunyies on the sunny braes,
 And wedders back and side.

With gilded eyes, and open wings,
 The cock his courage shows;
With claps of joy his breast he dings,
 And twenty times he crows.

The dove, with whistling wings so blue,
 The winds can fast collect;
Her purple pens turns many a hue,
 Against the sun direct.

Now noon is went, gone is mid-day,
 The heat does slack at last;
The sun descends down west away,
 From three of clock be past.

A little cool of breathing wind
 Now softly can arise;
The works through heat that lay behind,
 Now men may enterprise.

Forth paires the flocks to seek their food,
 On every hill and plain;
Each labourer as he thinkis good,
 Steps to his turn again.

The rayons of the sun we see
 Diminish in their strength;
The shade of every tower and tree
 Extended is in length.

Great is the calm, for every where
 The wind is sittin down;
The reik throws upright in the air,
 From every tower and town.

There firdowning, the bony birds
 In banks they do begin;
With pipes of reeds the jolly herds
 Holds up the merry din.

The mavis and the philomen,
 The stirling whistles loud;
The cushats on the branches green
 Full quietly they croud.

The gloming comes, the day is spent,
 The sun goes out of sight;
And painted is the Occident
 With purpour sanguine bright.

The scarlet nor the golden thread,
 Who would their beauty try,
Are nothing like the colour red,
 And beauty of the sky.

Our west horizon circular,
 From time the sun be set,
Is all with rubies, as it were,
 Or roses red, o'erfret.

What pleasure were to walk and see,
 Endlong a river clear,
The perfect form of every tree
 Within the deep appear.

The salmon out of crooves and creels
 Up hauled into skouts;
The bells and circles on the weills,
 Through louping of the trouts.

O then it were a seemly thing,
 While all is still and calme,
The praise of God to play and sing
 With cornet and with shalme.

But now the herds, with many shout,
 Calls other by their name,
"Go, billie, turn our good about,
 Now time is to go hame."

With belly full, the beasts belive
 Are turned from the corn,
Which soberly they homeward drive,
 With pipe and lilting horn.

Through all the land great is the gild
 Of rustic folk that cry,
Of bleating sheep, fra they be filled,
 Of calves and routing ky.

All labourers draw home at even,
 And can to other say,
"Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
 Which sent this summer day."