Oh! for the temperate airs that blow...

Oh! for the temperate airs that blow

Upon that darling of the sea,

Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow,

For three days hold supremacy;

But ever-varying skies contend

The blessings of all climes to lend,

To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle,

In never-fading beauty smile.

England, oh England! for the breeze

That slowly stirs thy forest-trees!

Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains,

Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains,

Thy lawny uplands, where the shadow

Of many a giant oak is sleeping;

The tangled copse, the sunny meadow,

Through which the summer rills run weeping.

Oh, land of flowers! while sinking here

Beneath the dog-star of the West,

The music of the waves I hear

That cradle thee upon their breast.

Fresh o'er thy rippling corn-fields fly

The wild-winged breezes of the sea,

While from thy smiling, summer sky,

The ripening sun looks tenderly.

And thou — to whom through all this heat

My parboiled thoughts will fondly turn,

Oh! in what “shady blest retreat”

Art thou ensconced, while here I burn?

Across the lawn, in the deep glade,

Where hand in hand we oft have strayed,

Or communed sweetly, side by side,

Hear'st thou the chiming ocean tide,

As gently on the pebbly beach

It lays its head, then ebbs away,

Or round the rocks, with nearer reach,

Throws up a cloud of silvery spray?

Or to the firry woods, that shed

Their spicy odours to the sun,

Goest thou with meditative tread,

Thinking of all things that are done

Beneath the sky?— a great, big thought,

Of which I know you're very fond.

For me, my mind is solely wrought

To this one wish:— O! in a pond

Would I were over head and ears!

( Of a cold ducking I've no fears )

Or any where, where I am not;

For, bless the heat! it is too hot!