SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.

In its crannies the hair-stemmed columbine nods,
The fern in its sprinkles drips;

And the little black dipper all over the bridge

Of the spanning pine-tree skips.

And the bubbles they toss on the smitten gloss

Of the dashing and flashing pool;

5.1

Where the angler scoops up his wreathed hopple-leaf cup, And the trout poises deep in the cool.

Alfred B. Street.

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.

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.

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.

THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.

THEY come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers;

They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers.

Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care

aside;

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters

glide;

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.

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The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the

hand;

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously; It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee:

And mark how with thy own thin locks-they now are silvery gray

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, "Be gay!"

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon

sky,

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody: Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold;

And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.

God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this

earth,

Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound-from yonder wood it came!

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name;

Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his

kind,

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western

wind;

Cuckoo ! Cuckoo! he sings again—his notes are void of

art;

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.

Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!

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 reckless, truant boy,

Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!

I'm sadder now-I have had cause; but oh! I'm proud to think

That each 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

THE GARDEN BOUGH,

55

UNWATCHED the garden bough shall sway,
The tender blossom flutter down,
Unloved that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;

Unloved the sunflower, shining fair,

Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;

Unloved by many a sandy bar,

The brook shall babble down the plain,

At noon, or when the lesser wain

Is twisting round the polar star;

Uncared for, gird the windy grove,

And flood the haunts of hern and crake;

Or into silvery arrows break

The sailing moon in creek and cove;

Till from the garden and the wild

A fresh association blow,

And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger's child;

As year by year the laborer tills

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills.

Alfred Tennyson.