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water itself ripples on, clear and musical, and chequered with small shadows from many a leaf, and bush, and moving bough. We lift our heads—and in the west what a ruby sun—what a gorgeous assemblage of sunset clouds!— William Howitt's Sural Life.

SUMMER'S SONG.

Who calleth? I am coming, I am coming

O'er the hills with a swift step, from dawn till gloaming,

Pouring from my broadlipp'd horn

Increase over grass and corn.

As I haste I hear discourses

From the murmurous water-courses,

Of the purple-pinion'd rover,

While from fragrant fields of clover

Comes a drowsy dreamy hum;

They say, "Doth not summer come?"
Yes, I'm coming, oh, I'm coming.

Who calleth 1 Bird in greenwood, deer in forest,

Meadow blossoms, and those small things (much the dearest)

Who blossom in the town,

And in every alley known

To venturous explorers among men—

All say, "Come, sweet summer, quicken

Thy slow steps, for oh! we sicken

Of the darkness and the snow;

We fain would bud and blow,

And we fain would build our nest

Where the green boughs shelter best,

And we fain would go and play

In the meadows yond' all day.
Oh sweet summer, sweetest summer, come again!"
Yes, I'm coming, oh! I'm coming.

Who calleth 1 All the great sea-waves are weary
Of wrestling with the roaring wind in fury,

And would like to go to sleep

On the surface of the deep,
Dreaming of the mermaids down below.

And all the little streams awake;

Their silver threads I take,

With the filmy morning mist

By early sunbeams kiss'd,

And wreathe them in a veil about my brow.

If I walk upon the land,

Scattering from my hand

Richest fruits and flowers,

While the winged hours

Paint the sky with gold,

And loveliness untold

Of blue, and rose, and grey

Invoking every day
Fresh spells of colour, and fresh majesty of form.

Oh I little child and sire,

Seated by your waning fire,
And storm-beat wanderer on the great earth roaming,
Fold your glad hands in prayer because I'm coming.

Bessie Parkes.

With summer comes the universal yearning after her, in no heart so intensely felt as in that of Poet city-pent; witness the following:—

ODE TO SUMMER.

Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, "0 rus!"

Of London pleasures sick:
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades,—my eyes detest

This endless meal of brick!

What joy have I in June's return 1
My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn;

I scent no flowery gust:
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,

And turns me " dust to dust."

My sun his daily course renews
Due east, but with no eastern dews;

The path is dry and hot!
His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,

But down a chimney's pot I

Oh ! but to hear the milk-maid blithe,
Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among!
My grass is of that sort—alas I
That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass

By folks of vulgar tongue I

ODE TO SUMMEB.

Oh ! but to smell the woodbine sweet,
I think of cowslip-cups,—but meet

With very vile rebuffs!
For meadow buds, I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff

The turtle made at Cuff's.

How tenderly Rousseau review'd
His periwinkles! mine are stew'd!

My rose blooms on a gown!
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign

That marks the Bell and Crown!

Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing
From tree to tree, and gaily sing

Or mourn in thickets deep ]
My cuckoo has some ware to sell,
The watchman is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sweep!

Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush!
That perch on leafy bough and bush,

And tune the various song?
Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,

Are all my "tuneful throng."

Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams,

And colours of the skies1
My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains

Of calimanco-dyes.

Sweet are the little brooks that run
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,

Singing in soothing tones:
Not thus the city streamlets flow;
They make no music as they go,

Though never "off the stones."

Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep,
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap

Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin—not shear—the lambs.

The pipe whereon, in olden day,
Th' Arcadian herdsman used to play

Sweetly, here soundeth not;
But merely breathes unwelcome fumes.
Meanwhile the city boor consumes

The rank weed—" piping hot."

All rural things are vilely mock'd,
On every hand the sense is shock'd

With objects hard to bear.
Shades—vernal shades! where wine is sold!
And for a turfy bank, behold

An Ingram's rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bowers,
And gardens redolent of flowers

Wherein the zephyr wons?
Alas I Moor Fields are fields no more!
See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er;

And that bare wood,—St. John's.

No pastoral scene procures me peace;
I hold no leasowes in my lease,

No cot set round with trees;
No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks;
And omnium furnishes my banks

With brokers, not with bees.

Oh! well may poets make a fuss

In summer time, and sigh, " 0 rus I"

Of city pleasures sick:
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades,—my eyes detest

This endless meal of brick.

Thomas Hood.

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MOWING.

Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along,
Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong,
Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,
Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries;
Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet,
But spares the rising clover short and sweet.
Come health! come jollity ! light-footed come;
Here hold your revels and make this your home;

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