will wander over the breezy hill; we will pluck the summer fruits; and
still welcome shalt thou be to us, sultry JULY.

* * * * *

Who is she, who, with the first blush of Aurora, brushes the pearly dew
from the grass? Her robe is thin and airy, and on her head is a garland
of wheat-ears and poppies. How busy is the scene around her! The shining
scythe cuts down the bearded barley and the quivering oat; the reaper
bends over the golden wheat, and fills the plenteous sheaf.

All are employed: even old age and childhood bend, with prying eyes, to
glean the scattered ears. The master looks on his riches, and swells
with satisfaction; the busy housewife loads the hospitable board, and
hands the mantling ale around; age tells the tale of past times; and the
loud laugh and rustic song burst from the lips of jocund youth. Oh! ever
thus return to us, with plenty in thy train, mirth-inspiring AUGUST.

* * * * *

Who is the youth that, at early dawn, brushes the stubble with his feet?
His gun is on his arm. His well-taught dogs are with him. The harmony of
the groves is destroyed, and the feathered race fall before his cruel
hand. The timid hare, starting at the sound of early feet, flies from
the furzy brake, and she returns to her shelter no more. Content
thyself, youth, with the various fruits which Nature now bestows. The
golden apricot, the downy peach, and the blooming plum, peep from
beneath their green foliage. Feast on these gifts, but spare the
feathered race, sanguinary SEPTEMBER.

* * * * *

Who now comes, with the steady air of a matron? Her robe is of yellow,
tinged with brown; and a wreath of berries encircles her head. She fills
her barns; and the flail, with monotonous sound, is heard. Labour
blesses her as he turns the earth with his plough, and scatters, with a
seemingly careless hand, the seeds of future harvests. She shakes the
clustering nuts from the trees, and gathers the rosy produce of the
orchard, where the apple and the mellow pear yield their refreshing
juice.

The poet wanders through the silent grove; the mournful breeze wafts the
withered leaves around him; the huntsman winds his horn; exercise bounds
over the plain; the sportsman rejoices in the barren fields. Season that
I love, ever welcome shalt thou be to me, mild and pensive OCTOBER.

* * * * *

What terrific