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.
