And I'll reign in triumph till autumn time,

Shall conquer my green and verdant pride; Then I'll hie me to another clime,

Till I'm called again as a sunny bride.

SUMMER.

HE montns we used to read of
Have come to us again,

With sunniness and sunniness,

And rare delights of rain; The lark is up, and says aloud,

East and west I see no cloud.

The lanes are full of roses,
The fields are grassy deep;
The leafiness and floweriness
Make one abundant heap;
The balmy, blossom-breathing airs
Smell of future plums and pears.

The sunshine at our waking

Is still found smiling by;

With beamingness and earnestness,
Like some beloved eye;

And all the day it seems to take

Delight in being wide awake.

The lasses in the gardens

Show forth their heads of hair,

With rosiness and lightsomeness,

A chasing here and there;

And then they'll hear the birds, and stand,
And shade their eyes with lifted hand.

ANON.

The Song of Summer.

And then again they're off there

As if their lovers came,
With giddiness and gladsomeness,
Like doves but newly tame.

Ah! light your cheeks at Nature, do,
And draw the whole world after you.

193

LEIGH HUNT.

THE SONG OF SUMMER.

MID the heath of northern hills,

Where early sunshine shone

On verdant woods and shining streams,

And summits gray and lone,

A minstrel from his native home

With rustic lyre came forth, And thus in native numbers sang The Summer of the North:

"We see the glory of thy steps
Upon our hills once more;
Oh, thou, the hope of every heart,

The joy of every shore!

Our skies have gained their deepest blue,

Our woods their vernal prime,

For heaven and earth rejoice in thee,

Thou glorious summer time!

Thine are the long and cloudless days,
The eves of golden light,

Whose lingering glories meet the morn,

And leave no room for night;

The freshness of the early dew,

The glow of breathless noon,

And the showers, for which the woodlands wait,

As for a promised boon.

Thy roses send their sweetness forth

From leafy bower and brake,

And thy lilies spread their floating snow

Upon the sunlit lake;

To the old forest's lonely depth

Thy presence joy imparts,

And reaches, through the clouds of care,

The depths of human hearts.

Well hath our dreamy childhood loved

To wander forth with thee

To leafy grove and grassy glen,

And fountain fresh and free.

But where are they that in those fair
And pleasant paths had part,
And when will it return to us,
That summer of the heart?

For hope hath changed to weariness,
And love hath changed to strife,
And few of all those early friends
Have been the friends of life;
And we have left the sunny track
Of childhood far behind,

And see it only through the thorns
That after years have twined.

But thou art bright and changeless still,
Queen of the circling years;

Summer Song of the Strawberry Girl.

Thy brow hath known no touch of time,

Thine eye no trace of tears;

For still as bright its sunshine falls

Upon the woods and waves,
As if that light had never shone

On broken hearts or graves!"

195

FRANCIS BROWN.

SUMMER SONG.

HE sun is careering in glory and might,
'Mid the deep blue sky and the cloudlets white;
The bright wave is tossing its foam on high,

And the summer breezes go lightly by;
The air and the water dance, glitter, and play,
And why should not I be as merry as they?

The linnet is singing the wild wood through:
The fawn's bounding footstep skims over the dew;
The butterfly flits round the flowering tree,

And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee;
All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay,
And why should not I be as merry as they?

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

SUMMER SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL.

T is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it looks;
There is sunshine on the old gray 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 painted 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?

They tell me that my father's poor—that is no grief to me, When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturned eye can see; They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy and

gem;

It may be so and yet, methinks, I do not envy them.

When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys 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 the fruit! the glowing fruit, 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 fruit 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. MARY HOWITT.

A SUMMER'S EVENING.

OW fine has the day been, how bright was the sun,
How lovely and joyful the course that he run!
Though he rose in a mist, when his race he

began,

And there followed some droppings of rain.