A SUMMER NIGHT

WEST sloping hills smile to the setting sun
In richest summer hues of vivid green.
The mower whistles, as, his labor done,
He homeward takes his way. In distance seen,
Like wreaths of smoke along the meadow’s edge,
The white fog marks the river’s banks of sedge.

The distant cattle, lowing loud and clear,
Are wending homeward, leisurely and slow.
The farm dog’s bark comes softened to the ear
By mellowing distance. On the stream below,
With ever ready wing and watchful eye
A flock of wild-fowl gracefully glide by.

The hermit thrush sings from the topmost spray
Of fir or hemlock; from the thicket dense
The gray owl hoarsely calls. A plaintive lay
Is rising from the ivy clustered fence
That skirts the base of yonder wooded hill—
An eager, flute-like call of whip-poor-will.

The plover’s cry cuts sharply on the air,
The clumsy beetle blunders on his rounds;
The wary fox creeps softly from his lair
And barks defiance to the distant hounds,
Who answer back with fierce, defiant bay,
And tug their chains, and pant to be away.

Now swims the moon along the milky way
In burnished splendor; and the hours of night
March forth like conquerors who hold mild sway,
Dispensing golden dreams, and rest, and light,
Alike on cottage, hut, or princely hall,
A peaceful benison, dowered alike on all.