1791
ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION

June.

Diary, or Woodfall's Register (23 June 1791).

S. E. H.


A pastoral ballad in eleven ballad quatrains signed "S. E. H." The poet makes observations on a long summer evening in June. Grammar, meter, and orthography prove something of a challenge however: "As back I return enchanted, I hear | Soft, Philomela pearch'd on the thorn; | So sweet, so melodious, so plaintiff, devine, | Methinks I could listen till morn."



The month now is June, and the rose scents the air,
While bending beneath the soft show'r;
What pleasure I feel while I grateful enjoy
The happy retreat of my bow'r.

But ev'ning approaches, and I must go see
My flocks are all safe in yon mead;
The bloom of that saintfoin with blushes dy'd o'er,
Affords me true pleasure indeed.

But yet at this gate I must rest me awhile,
The bean's fragrant blossom invites;
How ambrosial the air, how cooling each breeze,
And refreshing are all these delights.

Yon quick that in nature's pure mantle of green,
How enliven'd by yesterday's show'r;
But the thrush it contains an harmonious note,
Awakens my soul with its pow'r.

That hay newly mown makes fragrant the air,
Intermix'd with the daisy so sweet;
And the flow'rs in the hedge row whereon I now tread
Make nature's rich bounties compleat.

But hark! to yon blackbird in that little copse,
How it strains its melodious throat;
Now ceases till Phoebus has sunk in the west,
Its wild, yet harmonious note.

Now Phoebus declines, and is scarce to be seen,
But near veil'd by yon ruddy ting'd cloud;
All nature seems silent, preparing for rest,
But the rustic who whistles aloud.

He has been to his plough to make it compleat,
For the tillage and toil of next morn;
He's as happy as monarch, who sits on a throne,
And content does his cottage adorn.

That's his cottage that stands on the side of the hill,
With the Jessamine nail'd round his door;
That orchard is his where the chrystal stream runs,
And those meadows behind and before.

As back I return enchanted, I hear
Soft, Philomela pearch'd on the thorn;
So sweet, so melodious, so plaintiff, devine,
Methinks I could listen till morn.

But the clock in the village now warns me 'tis ten,
So homeward I cheerfully stray;
With the lark in the morn I shall rise all alert,
And grateful salute the new day.

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