The dappled slope, the tedded hay;
Sees the reddening orchard blow,
The harvest wave, the vintage flow;
Sees June unfold his glossy robe
Of thousand hues o'er all the globe;
Sees Ceres grasp her crown of corn,
And Plenty load her ample horn.

THOMAS WARTON.

N

A SUMMER MORNING.

O print of sheep-track yet hath crush'd a flower.
The spider's woof with silvery dew is hung
As it was beaded ere the daylight hour:
The hooked bramble just as it was strung,
When on each leaf the night her crystals flung,

Then hurried off, the dawning to elude;
Before the golden-beaked blackbird sung,
Or ere the yellow-brooms or gorses rude
Had bared their armed heads in lowly gratitude.

The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout:
Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold,

And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold."

"Hark! hark! the lark" sings 'mid the silvery blue,

Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow.

She seems the first that does for pardon sue,
As though the guilty stain which lurks below
Had touch'd the flowers that droop'd above her brow
When she all night slept by the daisies' side;
And now she soars where purity doth flow,

Where new-born light is with no sin allied,

And, pointing with her wings, heavenward our thoughts would guide.

In belted gold the bees with "

merry march"

Through flowery towns go sounding on their way:

They pass the red-streak'd woodbine's sun-stained arch,
And onward glide through streets of sheeted May,
Nor till they reach the summer roses stay,
Where maiden-buds are wrapt in dewy dreams,
Drowsy through breathing back the new-mown hay
That rolls its fragrance o'er the fringed streams,-
Mirrors in which the sun now decks his quivering beams.

*

*

And there the hidden river lingering dreams,

*

You scarce can see the banks which round it lie;
That wither'd trunk a tree or shepherd seems,

Just as the light or fancy strikes the eye.

So blend their fleeces with the misty haze,

They look like clouds shook from the unsunn'd sky,
Ere morning o'er the eastern hills did blaze ;—
The vision fades as they move further on to graze.

A chequer'd light streams in between the leaves,
Which on the green-sward twinkle in the sun;
The deep-voiced thrush his speckled bosom heaves,
And like a silver stream his song doth run
Down the low vale, edged with fir trees dun.

A little bird now hops beside the brook,

Peeping about like an affrighted nun;

And ever as she drinks doth upward look,

Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloister'd nook.

*

*

*

*

*

Hark, how the merry bells ring o'er the vale,
Now near, remote, or lost, just as it blows.
The red cock sends his voice upon the gale;
From his thatch'd grange his answering rival crows:
The milk-maid o'er the dew-bathed meadow goes;
Her tuck'd-up kirtle ever holding light;

And now her song rings through the green hedge-rows,

Her milk-kit hoops glitter like silver bright :

I hear her lover singing somewhere out of sight.

The leaves "drop, drop," and dot the crisped stream
So quick, each circle wears the first away,
Far out the tufted bulrush seems to dream
And to the ripple nods its head alway;
The water-flags with one another play,
Bowing to every breeze that blows between,
While purple dragon-flies their wings display:
The restless swallow's arrowy flight is seen

Dimpling the sunny wave, then lost amid the green.

THOMAS MILLER.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.

S this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When all is smiling above and around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the blackbird and wren,

And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;

The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,

And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows sport in the deep green vale;
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll in the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,

There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth, that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles,-
Ay, look, and he'll smile all thy gloom away.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

MORNING.

ORTH from the world of sunshine, laughing morn
Come forth! come forth!

And to her shadows drive reluctant night;

Smile on the rose, and dry the diamond tears

That she has wept for thee;

And she will turn in modest joy to thee her blushing cheek,

And to thy searching gaze reveal her charms.

Up, up to heaven's gate the lark ascends,

And hails thy coming with a jocund song;

And as he shakes the dew-drop from his wing,

He soars with joy into thy laughing face.

Then comes the fever'd student, pale with thought,

And wearied with the dark night vigils;

Mark how he turns his thankful eye to heaven,
As thy pure breezes fan his burning brow,
And chase each sombre thought at once away!
The little child arises from his couch,
And shading from his eyes the glorious sun,
Kneels down, and offers up his oft-taught prayer
To God, who sent thee forth to wake him up:
And let me bend my knee with thee, sweet child,
And jointly offer up to Him a prayer,

Who to the anxious weeping mother said,-
"Suffer thy children to come unto me,

And oh, forbid them not.”

WILDER.

SONNET.

HE honey-bee, that wanders all day long,
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,

Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,

The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips-
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips

The single drop of sweetness closely press'd
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we

Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,
In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of humanity;

And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.

ANNE C. LYNCH.