by Elizabeth Bentley
AH! Summer, why so long delay'd
Thy wonted influence? Why afraid
Thy laughing face to shew?
Instead of full prolific beams,
Thy countenance but faintly gleams,
Thou veil'st thy ruddy brow.
Chill Eurus frights thee from the land,
And Winter, with usurping hand,
Thy sceptre sternly sways;
Unripen'd fruits thy absence mourn,
And sickening fields of green-ear'd corn,
Demand thy genial rays.
The swain expects of hay his store,
But lo! th' o'erwhelming torrents pour
From yonder low'ring skies.
What shall reward the toiling steed,
When, clad in snow, the ice-bound mead
The tender grass denies?
O! come, tho' late, to bless our Isle,
Diffuse thy renovating smile,
And turn our fears to joy.
Why should gaunt Famine rear her head?
Why o'er thy paths her poison spread,
And Autumn's hope destroy?
'Tis God who sends the fruitful crop,
Who bids his clouds in fatness drop,
And plenty crown the fields;
When rebel Man defies his laws,
His hand th' accustom'd gifts withdraws,
Nor Earth her produce yields.
Cease, then, frail mortal, cease t' enquire,
Why burns th' Almighty's vengeful ire
Be silent, and adore!
Submiss, and humbled in the dust,
Confess the punishment is just,
And Mercy's grace implore.
Last updated January 14, 2019