Alexandria Advertiser And Commercial Intelligencer

For the Alexandria Advertiser.

A SONG FOR AUGUST

Where o'er the wave, bleak tempests howl:
Where Winter reigns with rude control
And earth with snows infolded is,
Let shivering Rhymers sing "my soul!
"How cold it is!"

Far different scenes await us here;
Where "dog-stars rage," and where the
year
Scorching, remains long what it is:
Then 'tis the task to cry, "oh! dear!
"How hot it is!"

Now are the doors wide open flung;
The vest on nail is lightly hung,
Or chair, no matter what it is:
Quick from the neck the pudding's slung,
So hot it is.

In zenith beams the burning sun;
The lolling herd to covert run:
All thought, but shelter, blotted is:
The dwarfish atom weighs a ton;
So hot it is!

Ah! pity now the Falstaff race,
Perspiring!--Now the coolest place
In piazza, while 'tis sought it is,
They cry, and wipe the humid face,
"How hot it is!"

Chaste Delia now her fears dispel.
And to th' enamour'd vision well
Gratis,--we dare not say what it is:
Yet, while it kills, it sweetly tells
How hot it is.

Sol sinks behind the western skies:
Too warm to sleep, the wight he cries,
Somnus! ah! heedless of it is!"
Anon, we hear his murm'ring sighs,
"How hot it is!"

DAMON.