Book Eighth

The spring departs; and, in her speeding haste,
Chased by a swarm of murmuring winds and bees,
Scatters the withered lilacs as she flees.
The blue bird mourns for her; the russet wren
Leads out its young, to see her ere she leaves.
Her hands are full of garlands, some a-bloom,
Some budding and some dead. With floating hair,
Thus fled Ophelia in her frenzied hour;
And, like Ophelia, from her willow branch,
Spring, singing, falls into the lilied pool,
And in the crystal stream of summer drowns.
The heavens a little weep above her form,
What time she floats adown into the past,
Till June, full blown and blooming, like her rose,
Comes laughing in beneath the rainbow arch.

It is the season when the stormy hive
Gives forth the noisy whirlwind of its swarm,
Which swings awhile above its ancient home,
With whirrings louder than a housewife's wheel,
And warns the dame of their intended flight;
When forth she sallies, all a-glow with fear
And anxious hope, and on the sounding pan
Beats like a maniac drummer in mid battle,
Filling the air with wild, discordant noise,
Until, for thus her rustic fancy deems,
The guiding voice of the great sov'reign bee
Is drowned amid the tumult. Then, perforce,
Their further flight is stayed; and on a limb,
With layer o'er layer, they settle till the branch
Droops with the black, impending weight; and then
The ready hive receives the living mass.
Or, if too late the ringing pan assails,
Behold the swift and winding line, afar,
Flies warping on the sun-illumined air,
And mocks the disappointed eye, until
Amid the distant forest boughs it sweeps,
And, like a veil entangling, clings and lights
Too high to be regained. Then, in some tree,
Some hollow oak, or beech, or sycamore,
Driving the astonished squirrel from his home,
They fix their habitation, and at once
Fill up their waxen garners with the sweets
The woodland blossoms and the clover yield;
And little reck how, in the autumnal hour,
The assailing axe shall come, and sulphurous smoke
Besiege their woody citadel, until
Invading hands usurp their winter store.

Now have the flocks been driven unto the brook,
And bathed to snowy whiteness 'gainst their will;
And, bleating oft beneath the clipping shears,
Have yielded up the fleece. The meadow fields
Are waving in the sunshine like a sea —
A billowy deep, whose flowers are like a foam;
And all abroad, behold the busy throng
Of those who swing the clover, as a path,
From seething scythes into the sidelong swath,
And sharp their blades with many a shrill che-whet.
The air is full of perfume. Following these,
With laugh and song, gay youths, with glittering prongs,
Shake out the scented masses to the sun,
Until the noon beholds the fields half mown,
And from the hill-side calls the midday horn.
Some bands there are, in harvest plains remote,
Who hearken not the conch's announcing call;
But pass into the oak or poplar's shade,
And on the branch suspend the glittering scythes,
Which hang vibrating; then the circle draw —
The grass alike their table and their seat —
While well-stored baskets furnish forth the meal.
The spring near by its crystal tribute gives,
And deals its freshness through the rustic gourd.

When now the grass, oft turned beneath the sun,
Is dry and crisp, and rustles to the tread,
Then comes the rake, with many a long drawn sweep,
Gleaning the shaven weed, until the plain,
Rough with the sultry stacks, appears a field
Thick set with russet tents. And thus it stands
Until the wagons, drawn by horse or yoke
Of easy oxen, with slow swaying gait,
Their large eyes dreaming o'er the rolling cud,
Convey the winter store unto the barn.
Then what wild laughter fills the heated mow,
Where boyhood treads the sweltering waves of hay,
Climbing the encroaching billows as they roll,
Till like a tide it swells along the roof,
Molesting wasps and swallows! — swells and swells,
Till the marauding child, with curious eye,
Thrusts his adventurous hand into the nest —
The highest in the grooved rafters lodged —
And finds but fragments of the tender shell,
Which crumble in his fingers, while outside
The parent bird darts laughing its derision.

Behold yon shape which, down the dusty road,
Comes marvellously large! It is a form
To frighten childhood from its wayside play;
At whose approach the household mastiff barks,
And, barking, to his kennel shrinks afraid.
It is the pedler, bending 'neath his load,
Like mighty Samson with the Gaza gates,
Or Atlas with the world. His monthly round
Once more hath brought him to these quiet homes.
Once more he lets the monster pack descend,
Straightens his shoulders, and unbinds the straps,
And shows the housewife the enticing store.
Long time she looks, yet shakes the cautious head,
Swaying 'twixt prudence and desire. Meanwhile
The children crowd, with wondering eyes, to see
The motley heap, with fingers oft offending,
And often chid; while, at her apron, one
Clings timidly, and nears, by gradual steps,
As wonder gains the mastery of fear.
With artful words the petty merchant spreads
The various show; now smooths the glossy silk,
And holds it to the light aslant; or, dropped
To lengthened folds, displays the embryo skirt.
There the white lace and there the ribands gleam,
Which light the maiden's eye. The vender's art,
Catching at every favourable sign,
Still pours persuasion from his ready tongue;
And, in the face of many a stubborn "No,"
Lightens his pack and bleeds the matron's purse.