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Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft | Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves western wind;

His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, his notes are And from the crowded fold, in order, drives void of art ;

His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep

JAMES THOMSON. founts of the heart.

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought

crazed wight like me,
To sinell again these summer flowers beneath this

summer tree !
To suck once more in every breath their little

Up the dale and down the bourne,

O'er the meadow swift we fly ;
Now we sing, and now we mourn,

Now we whistle, now we sigh.

souls away,

By the grassy-fringéd river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep ; Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very hearts we creep.

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's

bright summer day,
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reck-

less, truant boy
Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a

mighty heart of joy !
I'm sadder now, - I have had cause ; but 0,

I'm proud to think
That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet

delight to drink ;
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the

calm, unclouded sky,
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the

days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light fall round

me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,

a heart
that hath waxed old !

Now the maiden rose is blushing

At the frolic things we say,
While aside her cheek we're rushing,

Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming groves we rustle,

Kissing every bud we pass,
As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.

Down the glen, across the mountain,

O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain,

Till its little breakers foam.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

SUMMER MORNING.

Bending down the weeping willows,

While our vesper hymn we sigh ;
Then unto our rosy pillows

On our weary wings we hie.

FROM "THE SEASONS."

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Short is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east,
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow,
And, from before the lustre of her face,
White break the clouds away. With quickened

step,
Brown night retires. Young day pours in apace,
And opens all the lawny prospect wide.
The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top,
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.
Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents

RAIN IN SUMMER.

How beautiful is the rain !
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain !

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shine ;

And from the bladed field the fearful hare
Limps, awkward ; while along the forest glade
The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze
At early passenger. Music awakes,
The native voice of undissembled joy ;
And thick around the woodland hymns arise.

How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs !
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout !

Walking the fenceless fields of air ;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told, –
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers underground ;
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,

Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven toearth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

HENRY WADSWORTH LOXGFELLOW

A JUNE DAY.

Across the window-pane
It pours and pours ;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain !

The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks ;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion ;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain !
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand ;
Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees !
He can behold
Aquarius old

Who has not dreamed a world of bliss
On a bright sunny noon like this,
Couched by his native brook's green maze,
With comrade of his boyish days,
While all around them seemed to be
Just as in joyous infancy?
Who has not loved at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lulled in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude ?
While o'er the waste of purple ling
You mark a sultry glimmering ;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapped in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scattered broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear

WILLIAM HOWITT.

ANONYMOUS.

The crackling of the gorse-flowers, near,

17 Low o'er the grass the swallow wings, Pouring an orange-scented tide

18 The cricket, too, how sharp he sings, Of fragrance o'er the desert wide ?

19 Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, To hear the buzzard's whimpering shrill, 20 Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws, Hovering above you high and still ?

21 Through the clear streams the fishes rise The twittering of the bird that dwells

22 And nimbly catch the incautious flies. Among the heath's delicious bells ?

23 The glow-worms, numerous and light, While round your bed, o'er fern and blade, 24 Illumed the dewy dell last night, Insects in green and gold arrayed,

25 At dusk the squalid toad was seen, The sun's gay tribes have lightly strayed ; 26 Hopping and crawling o'er the green, And sweeter sound their humming wings 27 The whirling dust the wind obeys, Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings. 28 And in the rapid eddy plays ;

29 The frog has changed his yellow vest,
30 And in a russet coat is dressed.
31 Though June, the air is cold and still,

32 The mellow black bird's voice is shrill ; SUMMER MOODS.

33 My dog, so altered in his taste, I LOVE at eventide to walk alone,

34 Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast; Down narrow glens, o'erhung with dewy thorn,

35 And see yon rooks, how odd their flight, Where, from the long grass underneath, the snail,

36 They imitate the gliding kite,

37 And seem precipitate to fall, Jet black, creeps out, and sprouts his timid horn. I love to muse o'er meadows newly mown,

38 As if they felt the piercing ball.

39 'T will surely rain ; I see with sorrow, Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air ; Where bees search round, with sad and weary

40 Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. drone, In vain, for flowers that bloomed but newly

there ; While in the juicy corn the hidden quail

SUMMER STORM. Cries, “Wet my foot”; and, hid as thoughts

UNTREMULOUS in the river clear, unborn,

Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge ; The fairy-like and seldom-seen land-rail

So still the air that I can hear
Utters "Craik, craik," like voices underground, The slender clarion of the unseen midge ;
Right glad to meet the evening's dewy veil,

Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep, And see the light fade into gloom around.

Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, JOHN CLARE.

Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases.

The huddling trample of a drove of sheep

Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases
SIGNS OF RAIN.

In dust on the other side ; life's emblem deep,
A confused noise between two silences,
Finding at last in dust precarious peace.

On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses 1 The hollow winds begin to blow ;

Soak up the sunshine ; sleeps the brimming 2 The clouds look black, the glass is low,

tide 3 The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes 4 And spiders from their cobwebs peep. Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide 5 Last night the sun went pale to bed, Wavers the long green sedge's shade from side 6 The moon in halos hid her head ;

to side ; 7 The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, 8 For see a rainbow spans the sky.

Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened 9 The walls are damp, the ditches smell,

spray ; 10 Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge, 11 Hark how the chairs and tables crack ! And falling stillit seems, and yetit climbs alway. 12 Old Betty's nerves are on the rack ; 13 Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry, Suddenly all the sky is hid 14 The distant hills are seeming nigh.

As with the shutting of a lid, 15 How restless are the snorting swine ! One by one great drops are falling 16 The busy flies disturb the kine ;

Doubtful and slow,

PORTY REASONS FOR NOT ACCEPTING AN INVITATION OF

A FRIEND TO MAKE AN EXCURSION WITH HIM.

Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, Followed by silence dead and dull,
And the wind breathes low ;

As if the cloud, let go,
Slowly the circles widen on the river,

Leapt bodily below Widen and mingle, one and all ;

To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver,

And then a total lull.
Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall.

Gone, gone, so soon!
Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter, No more my half-crazed fancy there
The wind is gathering in the west ;

Can shape a giant in the air,
The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter,

No more I see his streaming hair, Then droop to a fitful rest ;

The writhing portent of his form ; Up from the stream with sluggish flap

The pale and quiet moon Struggles the gull and floats away ;

Makes her calm forehead bare, Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap, –

And the last fragments of the storm, We shall not see the sun go down to-day :

Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh,

Silent and few, are drifting over me.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL And tramples the grass with terrified feet, The startled river turns leaden and harsh, You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. Look ! look! that livid flash!

A SUMMER EVENING. And instantly follows the rattling thunder,

How fine has the day been! how bright was the sun! As if some cloud-crag, split asunder,

How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash,

Though he rose in a unist when his race he begun, On the Earth, which crouches in silence under ;

And there followed some droppings of rain ! And now a solid gray wall of rain

But now the fair traveller's come to the west, Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile ; For a breath's space I see the blue wood again, He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,

His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best: And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile,

And foretells a bright rising again. That seemed but now a league aloof,

Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof; Just such is the Christian ; his course he begins, Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, And melts into tears ; then he breaks out and The blue lightning flashes,

shines,
The rapid hail clashes,

And travels his heavenly way:
The white waves are tumbling,

But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
And, in one baffled roar,

Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
Like the toothless sea mumbling And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days,
A rock-bristled shore,

Of rising in brighter array.

ISAAC WATTS The thunder is rumbling

And crashing and crumbling,
Will silence return nevermore ?

MOONLIGHT IN SUMMER.
Hush ! Still as death,
The tempest holds his breath

Low on the utmost boundary of the sight,
As from a sudden will ;

The rising vapors catch the silver light; The rain stops short, but from the eaves Thence fancy measures, as they parting fly, You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, Which first will throw its shadow on the eye, All is so bodingly still ;

Passing the source of light; and thence away, Again, now, now, again

Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. Plashes the rain in heavy gouts,

For yet above these wasted clouds are seen
The crinkled lightning

(In a remoter sky still more serene)
Seems ever brightening,

Others, detached in ranges through the air, And loud and long

Spotless as snow, and countless as they 're fair; Again the thunder shouts

Scattered immensely wide from east to west, His battle-song,

The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest. One quivering flash,

These, to the raptured mind, alond proclaim One wildering crash,

Their mighty Shepherd's everlasting name ;

And thus the loiterer's utmost stretch of soul | How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise !
Climbs the still clouds, or passes those that roll, But are they silent all ? or is there not
And loosed imagination soaring goes

A tongue in every star that talks with man, High o'er his home and all his little woes. And wooes him to be wise ? nor wooes in vain :

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. This dead of midnight is the noon of thought,

And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.

At this still hour the self-collected soul
A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there

Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; " One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine." - YOUNG.

An embryo God; a spark of fire divine, 'Tis past,

the sultry tyrant of the South Which must burn on for ages, when the sun Hasspent his short-lived rage ; more grateful hours (Fair transitory creature of a day :) Move silent on; the skies no more repel Has closed his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, The dazzled sight, but, with mild maiden beams Forgets his wonted journey through the East. Of tempered lustre, court the cherished eye Ye citadels of light, and seats of gods ! To wander o'er their sphere ; where, hung aloft, Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow, Revolving periods past, may oft look back, New strung in heaven, lifts its beamy horns With recollected tenderness, on all Impatient for the night, and seems to push The various busy scenes she left below, Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines Its deep-laid projects and its strange events, Even in the eye of day; with sweetest beam As on some fond and doting tale that soothed Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood Her infant hours, – 0, be it lawful now Of softened radiance with her dewy locks. To tread the hallowed circle of your courts, The shadows spread apace; while meekened Eve, And with mute wonder and delighted awe Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires Approach your burning confines. Seized in Through the Hesperian gardens of the West,

thought, And shuts the gates of Day. 'T is now the hour On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail, When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts, From the green borders of the peopled earth, The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth And the pale moon, her duteous, fair attendant ; Of unpierced woods, where wrapt in solid shade From solitary Mars, from the vast orb She mused away the gaudy hours of noon, Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk And fed on thoughts unripened by the sun, Dances in ether like the lightest leaf; Moves forward and with radiant finger points To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, To yon blue concave swelled by breath divine, Where cheerless Saturn midst his watery moons Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether Sits like an exiled monarch : fearless thence One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling I launch into the trackless deeps of space, fires,

Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, And dancing lustres, where the unsteady eye, Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfined Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light O'er all this field of glories ; spacious field, From the proud regent of our scanty day; And worthy of the Master : He whose hand Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile

And only less than Him who marks their track Inscribed the mystic tablet ; hung on high And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop, To public gaze, and said, Adore, O man ! Or is there aught beyond ? What hand unseen The finger of thy God. From what pure

wells Impels me onward through the glowing orbs Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn, Of habitable nature, far remote, Are all these lamps so filled ? — these friendly To the dread confines of eternal night, lamps,

To solitudes of waste unpeopled space, Forever streaming o'er the azure deep

The deserts of creation, wide and wild ; To point our path, and light us to our home. Where embryo systems and unkindled suns How soft they slide along their lucid spheres ! Sleep in the womb of chaos ? Fancy droops, And, silent as the foot of Time, fulfil

And Thought, astonished, stops her bold career. Their destined courses. Nature's self is hushed, But, O thou mighty Mind ! whose powerful word And but a scattered leaf, which rustles through Said, “Thus let all things be," and thus they The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard

were, To break the midnight air ; though the raised ear, Where shall I seek thy presence ? how unblamed Intently listening, drinks in every breath. Invoke thy dread perfection?

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