Come, mellow month, whose full-blown charms
O'er mead and wood diffuse their grace;
Whose ardour all the valley warms,
And glads the grateful mountain's face.
The waving corn in yonder field,
Delighted, owns thy genial ray;
Whilst clover'd plains adoring yield
The frankincense of new-mown hay.
The sky a lovelier blue puts on;
The sun thro' Virgo proudly rides;
The lark sings sweeter at the dawn;
The stream with purer crystal glides.
The grove with tropic plenty flow'rs,
And Summer reigns in regal state;
Precious the boon of earlier hours,
Yet now doth each one culminate.
To youthful bards the Spring I give;
To sighing swains the June divine;
But I midst riper joys would live,
And choose the August days as mine!