August: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

August: A pastoral poem

Strews Nature her blessings around,
The labours of harvest my theme;
Autumnus redundantly crown'd,
Pours plenty's unlimited stream.
To Summer in silver attir'd
The muse bids reluctant farewell,
Her beauties so nearly expir'd,
I weep from the shade of my cell.

To Leo bright Phoebus inclin'd,
Plump Autumn is ripen'd to birth;
To splendid Aquarius consign'd,
Proceeds on her journey the earth.
Right chearful of heart the rude train
From the village of Industry pour,
Now people the gold-garnish'd plan,
In, Ceres, the midst of thy store.

From realms of retirement the hare
Quick conscious of jeopardy springs;
The patridge the voice of rough care
Avoids on vociferous wings:
Alas, hapless bird! o'er thy head
Fate hovers destruction to send;
In vain for your safety I shed
The plaints my feelings commend.

But I see o'er the widen'd champaign,
Thick sheaves of the full ripen'd corn,
High rais'd on the ponderous wain,
Move slow the tall rick to adorn.
In ridges the barley reclin'd,
Dazzles, while to the fugitive eye
Each scene kindles up to the mind
A providence rich from the sky.

Digressive shall critics excuse
The bard for a moment to stray?
Shall criticks? — compos'd be my muse,
Too mean for their mark is thy lay.
'Twas now when with equipoz'd scales
Fair Libra directed the hour,
From wings of the hot sunny gales,
Sooth'd toil's long exertion of pow'r.

'Twas now when Amanda the fair,
The rose-bud of innocent truth,
Sole pride of an antiquate pair,
Who labour'd and lov'd from their youth;
To Ceres a tribute preferr'd,
Two turtles but new from their nest,
A ribbon of blue to each bird
Hung flauntingly over its breast.

From cottage that's lapp'd in the dale,
Where silence on pillow of down
Bids rustic contentment regale
In comforts unknown to a crown:
Amanda stray'd slowly along,
With bosom estrang'd from a care,
Her transport confess'd in a song,
Though simple, of elegant air.

Leander, the subtle and gay,
From revels of harvest return'd,
By chance cross'd the nymph on her way,
Her errand ingeniously learn'd.
Suffice that seductive of art,
The present to Ceres denied,
By the force of Cytherian dart,
Cupid bore to his mother with pride.

Forbid that one hint should expose,
Forbid it compassionate care;
Yet still that she rivals the rose,
My muse, 'tis not thine to declare.
Misguided Amanda, how lost!
Discretion permitted to sleep;
O'er thy summer of beauty the frost
Of contempt will voraciously creep.

Learn hence, ye soft queens of desire,
That virtue should beauty protect;
From modesty scorn to retire,
Ensuring a decent respect.
Be art with persuasion combin'd —
The whispers of prudence approve,
Lest too late, like Amanda, you find
That Autumn's the Winter of love.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, August 1774

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[September: A pastoral poem]

William Perfect biography

The Crowd at the Ball Game / William Carlos Williams

XXVI

The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly

by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them —

all the exciting detail
of the chase

and the escape, the error
the flash of genius —

all to no end save beauty
the eternal —

So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful

for this
to be warned against

saluted and defied —
It is alive, venomous

it smiles grimly
its words cut —

The flashy female with her
mother, gets it —

The Jew gets it straight — it
is deadly, terrifying —

It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution

It is beauty itself
that lives

day by day in them
idly —

This is
the power of their faces

It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is

cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail

permanently, seriously
without thought

~~
William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
from Spring and All, 1923

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

William Carlos Williams biography

"The Crowd at the Ball Game" read by Bob Rutan for No Epilogue Poetry Project.

At Lord's / Francis Thompson

At Lord's

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro:–
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

It's Glo'ster coming North, the irresistible,
The Shire of the Graces, long ago!
It's Gloucestershire up North, the irresistible,
And new-risen Lancashire the foe!

A Shire so young that has scarce impressed its traces,
Ah, how shall it stand before all-resistless Graces?
O, little red rose, their bats are as maces
To beat thee down, this summer long ago!

This day of seventy-eight they are come up north against thee
This day of seventy-eight long ago!
The champion of the centuries, he cometh up against thee,
With his brethren, every one a famous foe!

The long-whiskered Doctor, that laugheth the rules to scorn,
While the bowler, pitched against him, bans the day he was born;
And G.F. with his science makes the fairest length forlorn;
They are come from the West to work thee woe!

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro:–
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

~~
Francis Thompson (1859-1907)
from Collected Poetry, 1913

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Francis Thompson biography

The New Cricket-Ground / Edward Cracroft Lefroy

The New Cricket-Ground

The loveliness of Earth is still unspent:
Her beauties, singly known, combined are strange:
And with what fondness she doth freshly range
Her ancient gems for man's new ravishment!
On this soft dew-fed tree-girt sward of Kent
The cricket-god to-day is first enthroned,
The dun herd banished, and its pasture owned
By white-clad players and their snowy tent.
The field I knew before, the lads I knew,
And oft elsewhere have watched their pleasant game
But now an added lustre comes to view.
Familiar features look no more the same;
The new-set picture gains another hue,
And sheds another glory on its frame.

~~

Edward Cracroft Lefroy (1855-1891)

from Echoes of Theocritus, and other sonnets, 1885

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Cracroft Lefroy biography

August's featured poem

The Penny Blog's featured poem for August 2021:

An August Mood, by Duncan Campbell Scott

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2011/08/august-mood-duncan-campbell-scott.html

Penny's Top 20 / July 2021

     

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in July 2021:

  1.  God Smiles, Will Dockery

  2.  At the Gates of Dawn, George J. Dance

  3.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  4.  Just Think!, Robert Service

  5.  Night Movement - New York, Carl Sandburg 
  6.  Lovers' Lane, Thomas Moult
  7.  Over hill, over dale, William Shakespeare

  8.  To Canada, James Alexander Tucker
  9.  The New Colossus, Emma Lazarus
10.  July: A pastoral poem, William Perfect

11.  July Midnight, Amy Lowell
12.  July, Michael Field
13.  Ode to Sport, Pierre de Coubertin
14.  Dandelions, George Sulzbach
15.  Expecting Inspiration, George Sulzbach
16.  Sonnet 1977, Will Dockery
17.  The World's Body, AE Reiff 

18.  Green, Paul Verlaine
19.  Winter Song, Elizabeth Tollett

20. First Snow, Charles E.S. Woods

21. Solitude Surrounded, AE Reiff

Source: Blogger, "Stats" 

July / Michael Field

July

There is a month between the swath and sheaf
          When grass is gone
And corn still grassy,
                    When limes are massy
     With hanging leaf
And pollen-coloured blooms whereon
          Bees are voices we can hear,
      So hugely dumb
This silent month of the attaining year.
The white-faced roses slowly disappear
From field and hedgerow, and no more flowers come:
                    Earth lies in strain of powers
                    Too terrible for flowers:
And would we know
     Her burthen we must go
Forth from the vale, and, ere the sunstrokes slacken,
     Stand at a moorland's edge and gaze
     Across the hush and blaze
Of the clear-burning, verdant summer bracken;
          For in that silver flame
          Is writ July's own name —
          The ineffectual, numbed sweet
          Of passion at its heat.

~~
Michael Field
from Underneath the Bough, 1893

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Michael Field biography

"July" read for LibriVox. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.