August 8.
The Season.
This time of the year is usually remarkably fine. The rich glow of summer is seldom in perfection till August. We now enjoy settled hot weather, a glowing sky, with varied and beautiful, but not many clouds, and delightfully fragrant and cool evenings. The golden yellow of the ripe corn, the idea of plenty inspired by the commencing harvest of wheat, the full and mature appearance of the foliage, in short the tout ensemble of nature at this time is more pleasing than perhaps that of any of the other summer months.
One of the editors of the “Perennial Calendar,” inserts some verses which he found about this time among his papers; he says they are “evidently some parody,” and certainly they are very agreeable.
Infantine Recollections
In Fancy how dear are the scenes of my childhood
Which old recollections recal to my view!
My own little garden, its plants, and the wild wood,
The old paper Kite that my Infancy flew.
The cool shady Elm Grove, the Pond that was by it,
My small plaything Mill where the rain torrent fell;
My Father’s Pot Garden, the Drying Ground nigh it,
The old wooden Pump by the Melon ground well.
That Portugal Laurel I hail as a treasure,
For often in Summer when tired of play,
I found its thick shade a most exquisite pleasure,
And sat in its boughs my long lessons to say.
There I first thought my scholarship somewhat advancing,
And turning my Lilly right down on its back,
While my thirst for some drink the Sun’s beams were enhancing
I shouted out learnedly—Da mihi lac.
No image more dear than the thoughts of these baubles,
Ghigs, Peg Tops, and Whip Tops, and infantine games
The Grassplot for Ball, and the Yewwalk for Marbles,
And the arbours for whoop, and the vine trellis frames.
Those three renowned Poplars, by Summer winds waved
By Tom, Ben, and Ned, that were planted of yore,
’Twixt the times when these Wights were first breeched and first shaved
May now be hewn down, and may waver no more!
How well I remember, when Spring flowers were blowing,
With rapture I cropt the first Crocuses there!
Life seemed like a Lamp in eternity glowing,
Nor dreamt I that all the green boughs would be sear.
In Summer, while feasting on Currants and Cherries,
And roving through Strawberry Beds with delight,
I thought not of Autumn’s Grapes, Nuts, and Blackberries,
Nor of Ivy decked Winter cold shivering in white.
E’en in that frosty season, my Grandfather’s Hall in,
I used to sit turning the Electric Machine,
And taking from Shockbottles shocks much less galling,
If sharper than those of my manhood I ween.
The Chesnuts I picked up and flung in the fires,
The Evergreens gathered the hot coals to choke;
Made reports that were emblems of blown up desires,
And warm glowing hopes that have ended in smoke.
How oft have I sat on the green bench astonished
To gaze at Orion and Night’s shady car,
By the starspangled Sky’s Magic Lantern admonished
Of time and of space that were distant afar!
But now when embarked on Life’s rough troubled ocean,
While Hope with her anchor stands up on the bow,
May Fortune take care of my skiff put in motion,
Nor sink me when coyly she steps on the prow.