Edward Hovell-Thurlow, Lord Thurlow (1781–1829)

THE SUMMER, the divinest Summer burns;

The skies are bright with azure and with gold;

The mavis and the nightingale, by turns,

Amid the woods a soft enchantment hold;

The flowering woods, with glory and delight,

Their tender leaves unto the air have spread;

The wanton air, amid their valleys bright,

Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance shed;

The nymphs within the silver fountains play,

And angels on the golden banks recline

Wherein great Flora, in her bright array,

Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets divine:

Or, else, I gaze upon that beauteous face,

O Amoret! and think these sweets have place.