THE Poetry of Summer. SUMMER. HEN came jolly summer, being dight And on his head a garland well beseene. - Edmund Spenser. THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT. THE HE spacious firmament on high, And spangled heaven, a shining frame, Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, Repeats the story of her birth; Whilst all the stars that round her burn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all DAYBREAK. -Joseph Addison. AY had awakened all things that be, DA The lark, and the thrush, and the swallow free, The crickets were still in the meadow and hill: -Percy Bysshe Shelley. S MORNING. WEET is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile earth THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER HEY 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, 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 thine 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 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 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. - William Motherwell. A DROP OF DEW. EE how the orient dew, SEE Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born) And in its little globe's extent |