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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

founts of the heart.

JAMES THOMSON.

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.

· 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.

By the grassy-fringed river,

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

To their very hearts we creep.

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought

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

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

souls away, 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 o,

I'm proud to think
That cach 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 indeel 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.

Bending down the weeping willows,

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

On our weary wings we hie.

There of idlenesses dreaming,

Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages deeming
Till we're at our play again.

GEORGE DARLEY.

SUMMER MORNING.

FROM "THE SEASONS.”
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 pight 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

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.

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 !

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

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