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"When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill."

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"When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill."

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow-light,
All fashioned with supremest grace
Upspringing day and night :-
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness
Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth ?—
To minister delight to man,

To beautify the earth;

To comfort man, to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim,

For who so careth for the flowers
Will care much more for him!

MARY HOWITT.

BETROTHED ANEW.

THE sunlight fills the trembling air,
And balmy days their guerdons bring;
The Earth again is young and fair,

And amorous with musky Spring.

The golden nurslings of the May

In splendor strew the spangled green, And hues of tender beauty play,

Entangled where the willows lean.

Mark how the rippled currents flow;
What lustres on the meadows lie!
And hark! the songsters come and go,
And trill between the earth and sky.

Who told us that the years had fled,

Or borne afar our blissful youth? Such joys are all about us spread,

We know the whisper was not truth.

The birds that break from grass and grove
Sing every carol that they sung
When first our veins were rich with love,
And May her mantle round us flung.

O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life!

O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true, With whose delights our souls are rife, And aye their vernal vows renew! Then, darling, walk with me this morn; Let your brown tresses drink its sheen; These violets, within them worn,

Of floral fays shall make you queen. What though there comes a time of pain

When autumn winds forbode decay?
The days of love are born again;
That fabled time is far away!

And never seemed the land so fair
As now, nor birds such notes to sing,
Since first within your shining hair
I wove the blossoms of the spring.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY.

O PERFECT Light, which shaid away
The darkness from the light,
And set a ruler o'er the day,
Another o'er the night;

Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
More vively does appear,
Than at midday unto our eyes
The shining sun is clear.

The shadow of the earth anon

Removes and drawis by,
While in the east, when it is gone,
Appears a clearer sky.

Which soon perceive the little larks,
The lapwing and the snipe,
And time their songs, like Nature's clerks,
O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.

Our hemisphere is polished clean,

And lightened more and more; While everything is clearly seen,

Which seemed dim before;

Except the glistering astres bright,

Which all the night were clear, Offusked with a greater light No longer do appear.

The golden globe incontinent
Sets up his shining head,
And o'er the earth and firmament
Displays his beams abread.

For joy the birds with boulden throats
Against his visage sheen
Take up their kindly music notes

In woods and gardens green.

The dew upon the tender crops,
Like pearles white and round,
Or like to melted silver drops,

Refreshes all the ground.

The misty reek, the clouds of rain From tops of mountains skails, Clear are the highest hills and plain, The vapors take the vales.

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