Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves void of art; But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart. Good Lord it is a gracious boon for thoughtcrazed 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 reck less, truant boy Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a I'm sadder now, I have had cause; but 0, That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet 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 indeed life's heaviest curse, that hath waxed old! a heart JAMES THOMSON. SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. Up the dale and down the bourne, By the grassy-fringéd river, Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; To their very hearts we creep. Now the maiden rose is blushing Through the blooming groves we rustle, Scarcely knowing how it was. Down the glen, across the mountain, Bending down the weeping willows, There of idlenesses dreaming, GEORGE DARLEY. RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, From the throat of the overflowing spout ! Across the window-pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The sick man from his chamber looks He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighboring school With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Ingulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean. In the country, on every side, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, To the dry grass and the drier grain In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, His pastures, and his fields of grain, To the numberless beating drops He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, Walking the fenceless fields of air; Of the clouds about him rolled As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Down to the graves of the dead, Of lakes and rivers underground; And sees them, when the rain is done, Thus the Seer, Sees forms appear and disappear, From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning forevermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW A JUNE DAY. WHO has not dreamed a world of bliss Who has not loved at such an hour, |