Elegy Written in the Hot Weather - John Scott of Amwell

Three hours from noon the passing shadow shows,

  The sultry breeze glides faintly o'er the plains,

The dazzling ether fierce and fiercer grows,

  And human nature scarce its rage sustains.

Now still and vacant is the dusty street,

  And still and vacant all yon fields extend,

Save where those swains, oppress'd with toil and heat,

  The grassy harvest of the mead attend.

Lost is the lively aspect of the ground,

  Low are the springs, the reedy ditches dry;

No verdant spot in all the vale is found,

  Save what yon stream's unfailing stores supply.

Where are the flow'rs, the garden's rich array?

  Where is their beauty, where their fragrance fled?

Their stems relax, fast fall their leaves away,

  They fade and mingle with their dusty bed:

All but the natives of the torrid zone,

  What Afric's wilds, or Peru's fields display,

Pleas'd with a clime that imitates their own,

  They lovelier bloom beneath the parching ray.

Where is wild Nature's heart-reviving song,

  That fill'd in genial spring the verdant bow'rs?

Silent in gloomy woods the feather'd throng

  Pine through this long, long course of sultry hours.

Where is the dream of bliss by summer brought?

  The walk along the riv'let-water'd vale?

The field with verdure clad, with fragrance fraught?

  The Sun mild-beaming, and the fanning gale?

The weary soul Imagination cheers,

  Her pleasing colours paint the future gay:

Time passes on, the truth itself appears,

  The pleasing colours instant fade away.

In diff'rent seasons diff'rent joys we place,

  And these will spring supply, and summer these;

Yet frequent storms the bloom of spring deface,

  And summer scarcely brings a day to please.

O from some secret shady cool recess,

  Some Gothic dome o'erhung with darksome trees,

Where thick damp walls this raging heat repress,

  Where the long aisle invites the lazy breeze!

But why these plaints?--reflect, nor murmur more--

  Far worse their fate in many a foreign land,

The Indian tribes on Darien's swampy shore,

  The Arabs wand'ring over Mecca's sand.

Far worse, alas! the feeling mind sustains,

  Rack'd with the poignant pangs of fear or shame;

The hopeless lover bound in Beauty's chains,

  The bard whom Envy robs of hard-earn'd fame;

He, who a father or a mother mourns,

  Or lovely consort lost in early bloom;

He, whom fell Febris, rapid fury! burns,

  Or Phthisis slow leads ling'ring to the tomb--

Lest man should sink beneath the present pain;

  Lest man should triumph in the present joy;

For him th' unvarying laws of Heav'n ordain,

  Hope in his ills, and to his bliss alloy.

Fierce and oppressive is the heat we bear,

  Yet not unuseful to our humid soil;

Thence shall our fruits a richer flavour share,

  Thence shall our plains with riper harvests smile.

Reflect, nor murmur more—for, good in all,

  Heav'n gives the due degrees of drought or rain;

Perhaps ere morn refreshing show'rs may fall,

  Nor soon yon Sun rise blazing fierce again:

Ev'n now behold the grateful change at hand!

  Hark, in the east loud blust'ring gales arise;

Wide and more wide the dark'ning clouds expand,

  And distant lightnings flash along the skies!

O, in the awful concert of the storm,

  While hail, and rain, and wind, and thunder join;

May deep-felt gratitude my soul inform,

  May joyful songs of rev'rent praise be mine.

---

John Scott of Amwell (1730 -  1783) England

Source: Poet's Corner