O thou who passest thro' our valleys in
     Thy strength， curb thy fierce steeds， allay the heat
     That flames from their large nostrils！ thou， O Summer，
     Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent， and oft
     Beneath our oaks hast slept， while we beheld
     With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
     Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
     Thy voice， when noon upon his fervid 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 bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire：
     Our youth are bolder than the southern swains：
     Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance：
     We lack not songs， nor instruments of joy，
     Nor echoes sweet， nor waters clear as heaven，
     Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.