For thy skies are bright and blue,
As a sapphire's brilliant hue,

And the heats of Summer noon,

Made cooler by thy breath

O'er the clover-scented heath,

Which the scythe must sweep so soon n;
And thou fann'st the fevered cheek
With thy softest gales of balm,
Till the pulse so low and weak
Beateth stronger and more calm.

And the student's listless air,

As a dreamy sound and dear,

Hath caught a pleasant murmur of the insect's busy hum, Where arching branches meet,

O'er the turf beneath his feet,

And a thousand Summer fancies with the melody have come; And he turneth from the page

Of the prophet or the sage,

And forgetteth all the wisdom of his books;

For his heart is roving free

With the butterfly and bee,

And chimeth with the music of the brooks,

Singing still their merry tune

In the flashing light of noon,
One chord of thy sweet lyre,
Laughing June!

A glimpse thou art of Heaven,
Lovely June!

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MARY NOEL MEIGS.

Type of a purer clime

Beyond the flight of time,

Where the amaranth flowers are rife

By the placid stream of life,
For ever gently flowing;
Where the beauty of the rose
In that land of soft repose,

No blight nor fading knows
In immortal fragrance blowing.

And my prayer is still to see

In thy blessed ministry,

A transient gleam of regions that are all divinely fair;
A foretaste of the bliss

In a holier world than this,

And a place beside the loved ones who are safely gathered

there.

The Tulip and Eglantine.

THE Tulip called to the Eglantine,

"Good neighbor, I hope you see

Anon.

How the throngs that visit the garden come Το pay their respects to me.

"The florist admires my elegant robe,

And praises its rainbow ray,

Till it seems as if, through his raptured eyes He was gazing his soul away."

"It may be so," said the Eglantine; "In an humble nook I dwell,

And what is passing among the great,

I cannot know so well.

"But they speak of me as the flower of love, And that low-whispered name,

Is dearer to me, and my infant buds,

Than the loudest breath of fame."

A Day in June.

J. R. Lowe

HAT is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And o'er it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur or see it glisten';
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers
And, grasping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf or a blade too mea To be some happy creature's palace.

The little bird sits at the door in the sun, Atilt, like a blossom, among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of Summer it receives.

A DAY IN JUNE.

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

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And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—

In the nice ear of nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a rippling cheer, Into every bare inlet, and creek, and bay. Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God so wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel quite well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year

Tells all in his lusty crowing!