A HOLY-DAY--the frugal banquet spread

On the fresh herbage near the fountain head,

With quips and cranks-what time the wood-lark there Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air.

THE SUN.

Most glorious art thou! when from thy pavilion
Thou lookest forth at morning; flinging wide
Its curtain clouds of purple and vermilion,
Dispensing life and light on every side;

Brightening the mountain cataract, dimly spied

Through glittering mist; opening each dew-gemm'd flower,

Or touching, in some hamlet, far descried,

Its spiral wreaths of smoke that upward tower,

Where birds their matin sing from many a leafy bower.

And more magnificent art thou, bright Sun!
Uprising from the Ocean's billowy bed:
Who that has seen thee thus, as I have done,
Can e'er forget the effulgent splendours spread
From thy emerging radiance? Upward sped,

Even to the centre of the vaulted sky,

Thy beams pervade the heavens, and o'er them shed

Hues indescribable-of gorgeous dye,

Making among the clouds mute glorious pageantry.

Then, then how beautiful across the deep
The lustre of thy orient path of light!
Onward, still onward, o'er the waves that leap
So lovelily, and show their crests of white,

The eye, unsated in its own despite,

Still up that vista gazes; till thy way

Over the waters seems a pathway bright

For holiest thoughts to travel, there to pay

Man's homage unto Him who bade thee "rule the Day."

BARTON.

WILD FLOWERS.

A FILBERT-EDGE with wild-brier overtwined,
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
The frequent checker of a youngling tree,

That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:

Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters,

Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters,
The spreading bluebells: it may haply mourn
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
From their fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly

By infant hands, left on the path to die.
Open afresh your round of starry folds,

Ye ardent marigolds !

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,

For great Apollo bids

That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses :
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.
Here are sweet-peas, on tip-toe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
What next? A turf of evening primroses,
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ;
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that 't is ever startled by the leap

Of buds into ripe flowers.

KEATS.