O thou who passest thro' our valleys in

    Thy strength， curb¹ thy fierce steeds， allay² the heat

    That flames from their large nostrils³！ thou， O Summer，

    Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent， and oft

    Beneath our oaks hast slept， while we beheld⁴

    With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

    Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard

    Thy voice， when noon upon his fervid⁵ car

    Rode o'er the deep of heaven； beside our springs

    Sit down， and in our mossy valleys， on

    Some bank beside a river clear， throw thy

    Silk draperies off， and rush into the stream：

    Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

    Our bards⁶ are fam'd who strike the silver wire：

    Our youth are bolder than the southern swains：

    Our maidens⁷ fairer in the sprightly⁸ dance：

    We lack not songs， nor instruments of joy，

    Nor echoes sweet， nor waters clear as heaven，

    Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

上一篇：Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau 下一篇：When Klopstock England defied