Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/68

 The sturdy rustic, in the middle wave, Awaits to seize him rising; one arm bears His lifted head above the limpid stream While the full clammy Fleece the other laves Around, laborious, with repeated toil; And then resigns him to the sunny bank, Where, bleating loud, he shakes his dripping locks. Shear them the fourth or fifth return of morn, Lest touch of busy fly-blows wound their skin. Thy peaceful subjects without murmur yield Their yearly tribute: 'tis the prudent part To cherish and be gentle, while ye strip The downy vesture from their tender sides. Press not too close; with caution turn the points, And from the head in regular rounds proceed: But speedy, when ye chance to wound, with tar Prevent the wingy swarm and scorching heat; And careful house them, if the low'ring clouds Mingle their stores tumultuous: thro' the gloom Then thunder oft with pond'rous wheels rolls loud, And breaks the crystal urns of heav'n; adown Falls streaming rain. Sometimes among the steeps Of Cambrian glades (pity the Cambrian glades!) Fast tumbling brooks on brooks enormous swell, And sudden overwhelm their vanish'd fields: Down with the flood away the naked sheep, Bleating in vain, are borne, and straw-built huts, And rifted trees, and heavy enormous rocks, Down with the rapid torrent to the deep. At shearing-time along the lively vales Rural festivities are often heard; Beneath each blooming arbour all is joy And lusty merriment. While on the grass The mingled youth in gaudy circles sport, We think the Golden Age again return'd,