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THE COMING SUMMER.

She comes ! she comes ! with her flashing eyes,

And her cheek of passion's hue,
'Mid a train of aërial symphonies,

In a garment of cloudless blue.
She comes, and her spell is on earth and skies,

Over land and over sea,

In her warm maturity,
She comes ! the Summer comes !

SUMMER SONG. It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it looks; There is sunshine on the old grey hills, and sunshine on the brooks; A singing bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness everywhere. Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, To look upon the beauteous flowers, and watch the opening buds ; Or seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash tree's root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit? When forth I go upon my way, a thousand joys are mine, The clusters of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the rose; And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then how rich the strawberry, how sweet the scent it breathes ! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green leaves ! Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fi'uit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh! summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds and sights ; Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm delights; I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain, And all the winter long I sing—sweet summer, come again.

M. HOWITT.

SUMMER WIND.

It is a sultry day, the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass.
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee
Settling on the sick flower, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the intense heat; the sweet clover droops.

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heavens,-
Their bases on the mountains, their white tops
Shining in the far ether-fire the air
With a reflected glow. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Look!-on the woody ridge
The pine is bending his proud crest, and now,-
Among the nearer groves-chesnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs. Lo! near he comes,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And spreading wide their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls." All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun-as if the dew
Were on them yet;-and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes. BRYANT.

SUMMER.

They may boast of the spring time when flowers are the fairest,

And birds sing by thousands on every green tree;
They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest;-

But Summer is the season that is dearest to me!
For the brightness of sunshine; the depth of the shadows;

The crystal of waters; the fulness of green;
And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows,

In the glory of Summer can only be seen.
Oh the beautiful flowers, all colours combining,

Geranium, pink, fuchsia, with sweet mignonette,
Round the stem of the rose the convolvulus twining,

Grows with the dahlias near the fountain's bright jet.
Yes, the radiant Summer of times is the fairest,

For greenwoods and mountains, for meadows and bowers,
For waters and fruits, and for flowers the rarest,
And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers !

M. Howitt.-Adap.

Proudly, lovely and serenely,

Power and passion in her eye,
With an aspect calm and queenly,

Comes the summer nymph, July:
Crown’d with azure, clothed with splendour,

Gorgeous as an eastern bride;
While the glowing Hours attend her

O'er the languid landscape wide. Fierce the noontide glory gushes

From the fountains of the sun, And a thousand hues and flushes

Clothe the west when day is done. Scarce the dew hath wet the grasses,

Or the wild flowers curved cup, Than the thirsty sunbeam passes,

Drinking all its nectar up. Now the lurid lightning breaketh

Through the dull and lingering rack, And the solemn thunder speaketh

From his cloud-throne huge and black.
Gleaming in the fitful flashes,

Swathing all the welkin round,
Rain, driven earthward, dances, dashes,

With a quick and pattering sound.
As the lightning, rain, and thunder

Vanish with the riven gloom, All the breadth of nature under

Wakes to beauty and perfume. Birds again essay their voices;

Bees renew their devious toil;
Man with grateful heart rejoices

O’er the promise of the soil.
Now the harvest-gathered meadows

With a second green are gay;
Now the wood's enwoven shadows

Lure us from the dusty way:
More than wont the streams delight us,

As they run their pleasant race;
And the lucid pools invite us

To their cool and calm embrace.
Gladly homeward by the river,

As the golden sunset glows;
Go I where the corn-fields shiver,

To the blandest wind that blows.
By the woodland brooks that darkle

Through the tangles of the glade;
By the mossy wells that sparkle
In the hawthorn's chequered shade.

J. C. PRINCE.-Adap.

ADDRESS TO AUTUMN. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit, the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel : to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft beneath thy store ?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind, As on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies-while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its winged flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings-hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ah, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,While barr'd clouds bloom the softly dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows borne aloft,
Or smiling as the light wind lives or dies;

And full grown lambs bleat loud from hilly bourn.
Hedge-crickets sing; and now, with treble soft,
The red-breast whistles from a garden croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. KEATS.

THE AUTUMN FLOWER GARDEN.
A spirit haunts the year's last hours,
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers •

To himself he talks ;
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh

In the walks :

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose

An hour before death;
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves,
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,

And the breath

Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year's last rose.

Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower

Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. TENNYSON.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere;
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead,
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung

and stood,
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood !
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie: but the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

BRYANT.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,

And the winter winds are wearily sighing;
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly, and speak low,

For the old year lies a-dying.
He lieth still—he doth not move

He will not see the dawn of day;
He hath no other life above-
He gave me a friend and a true true-love,

And the new year will take 'em away.
He frothed his bumpers to the brim :

A jollier year we shall not see,
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,

He was a friend to me.
The old year's gone!--the drifting snow

And howling winds our sorrows mock;
The shadows flicker to and fro;
The cricket chirps; the lights burn low;

'Tis now past twelve o'clock. TENNYSON.-Adap.

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