MORNING IN SUMMER.

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

KEATS.

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MORNING IN SUMMER.

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 winding glow,
And from before the lustre of her face

White break the clouds away. With quickened step,
Brown Night 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.
Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves
His mossy cottage, where with Peace he dwells;
And from the crowded fold, in order, drives
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn.
But yonder comes the powerful King of Day,
Rejoicing in the east! The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow
Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now, apparent all,
Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air,
He looks in boundless majesty abroad;

And sheds the shining day, that burnished plays

On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering

streams,

High-gleaming from afar.

THOMSON.

THE WILD BRAMBLE.

THY fruit full well the school-boy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.

THE WILD BRAMBLE.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need'st not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull,

That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the mossed gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.

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Scorned bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.

ELLIOTT.

✓

AN EVENING VISIT TO WINDERMERE.

BEHOLD the shades of afternoon have fallen
Upon this flowery slope; and see-beyond—
The silvery lake is streaked with placid blue;
As if preparing for the peace of evening.
How tempting the landscape shines! The air
Breathes invitation; easy is the walk

To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moored
Beneath her sheltering tree.

WORDSWORTH.

SUNRISE ABOVE THE CLOUDS.

STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

SUNRISE ABOVE THE CLOUDS.

The clouds were far beneath me;-bathed in light, They gathered mid-day round the wooded height, And, in their fading glory, shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown,

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left

The dark pine, blasted, bare, and cleft.)

The veil of cloud was lifted, and below

Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade;
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.)

I heard the distant waters dash,

I saw the current whirl and flash,—

And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,

The woods were bending with a silent reach.`
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,

The music of the village bell

Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,

Was ringing to the merry shout,

That faint and far the glen sent out,

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