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. JAMES THOMSON. SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. Up the dale and down the bourne, By the grassy-fringed river, To their very hearts we creep. Now the maiden rose is blushing Through the blooming groves we rustle, Down the glen, across the mountain, Bending down the weeping willows, There of idlenesses dreaming, GEORGE Darley. RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window-pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The sick man from his chamber looks He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighboring school 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, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, To the dry grass and the drier grain In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; 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, His pastures, and his fields of grain, To the numberless beating drops He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, WHO has not dreamed a world of bliss Who has not loved at such an hour, |