Fervid on the glitt'ring flood,
 Now the noon-tide radiance glow
Dropping o'er its infant bud,
 Not a dew-drop's left the rose.

By the brook the shepherd dines;
 From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd by the branching pines,
 Pendant o'er his grassy seat.

Now the flock forsakes the glade,
 Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall;
Sure to find a pleasing shade
 By the ivy'd abbey wall.

Echo in her airy round,
 O'er the river, rock, and hill;
Cannot catch a single sound
 Save the clack of yonder mill.

Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
 Where the streamlet wanders cool;
Or with languid silence stand
 Midway in the marshy pool.

But from mountain, dell, or stream,
 Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs;
Fearful lest the noon-tide beam
 Scorch its soft, its silken wings.

Not a leaf has leave to stir,
 Nature's lull'd serene, and still!
Quiet o'er the shepherd's cur,
 Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

Languid is the landscape round,
 Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
 Raises every fainting flower.

Now the hill, the hedge, is green.
 Now the warbler's throat's in tune!
Blithsome is the verdant scene,
 Brighten'd by the beams of noon.