Page:The poetical works of William Blake, 1906 - Volume 1.djvu/42

4 Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and nourishing hair. Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when Noon upon his fervid car Rode o'er the deep of heaven. Beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream! Our valleys love the Summer in his pride. Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire: Our youth are bolder than the southern swains, Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance. We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

, laden with thy fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. 'The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing, And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head. 'The Spirits of the Air live on the smells Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.' Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat; Then rose, girded himself, and o'er bleak hills Fled from our sight; but left his golden load.