II
’Tis July, and a sunny stillness broods
On our magnificent England. Misty skies
Break into blue, and ripening harvests rise
Over her bosom. Her majestic woods
Ripple and sway before the varying moods
Of the west wind. The roses sacrifice
In every garden to the sun. There lies
Deep peace o’er all: no sound profane intrudes.
Far in the north the solemn mountains keep
A sanctuary amongst the shades that dwell
In the deep gloom of haunted Highland glens,
Where silence awes, and where for ever sleep
In lochs unfathomed and inscrutable
The shadows of the everlasting Bens.
Hesepe, 2nd July