I tread with lighter steps anew
The pathways of my boyhood's morn ;
The sky o'erhead is just as blue,
And just as green the springing corn,
And sweet the scent of thyme and thorn.

No care then rankled in

my

No sorrow on my spirit fell;

breast;

The cool green sward my bare feet prest, The lowing herds they knew me well, And I, the daisy in the dell.

The squirrel had his hiding-place,
And I had mine beside the brook;
He gathered nuts from day to day,
Whilst I a constant lesson took
From him, and nature's wondrous book.

O fair green fields and summer skies!
O visions of long time ago!

O well-remembered haunts, and chimes
Which from perennial fountains flow!
Glad voices from the vales below.

Here let me bathe my weary brow

In this delicious air of day;

All laden as it cometh now

With fragrance from the new-mown hay,

The blackbird's and the robin's lay.

The busy world will not intrude,
Nor Mammon his proud altar rear;
Alone, within this breezy wood,
Where the Almighty doth appear,

I'll pay my heart's deep homage here!

-Henry Stevenson Washburn.

From "A Vacant Chair and Other Poems.”

I

A VIOLET BANK.

KNOW a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows: Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,

With sweet musk roses and with eglantine.

THE

THE MOSS ROSE.

HE angel of the flowers one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,
That spirit to whose charge 't is given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.
Awaking from his light repose,

The angel whispered to the rose:
"O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found, where all are fair;

For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me

Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."

66

'Then," said the rose, with deepened glow,

"On me another grace bestow."

The spirit paused, in silent thought,

What grace was there that flower had not?

'Twas but a moment,

- o'er the rose

A veil of moss the angel throws,
And, robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed?

- From the German of Krummacher.

JULY.

IEN the scarlet cardinal tells

WHEN

Her dream to the dragon fly,

And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees, And murmurs a lullaby,

It is July.

When the tangled cobweb pulls

The cornflower's cap awry,
And the lilies tall lean over the wall
To bow to the butterfly,

It is July.

When the heat like a mist veil floats,

And poppies flame in the rye,

And the silver note in the streamlet's throat
Has softened almost to a sigh,
It is July.

When the hours are so still that time
Forgets them, and lets them lie

'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink

At the sunset in the sky,

I

A SUMMER LONGING.

MUST away to wooded hills and vales,

Where broad, slow streams flow cool and silently,

And idle barges flap their listless sails;

For me the summer sunset glows and pales,
And green fields wait for me.

I long for shadowy forests, where the birds
Twitter and chirp at noon from every tree;
I long for blossomed leaves and lowing herds;
And Nature's voices say in mystic words,
"The green fields wait for thee."

I dream of uplands where the primrose shines,
And waves her yellow lamps above the lea;
Of tangled copses swung with trailing vines;
Of open vistas, skirted with tall pines,
Where green fields wait for me.

I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I
May lie and listen to the distant sea,
Or hear the breezes in the reeds that sigh,
Or insect voices chirping shrill and dry,
In fields that wait for me.

These dreams of summer come to bid me find
The forest's shade, the wild bird's melody,
While summer's rosy wreaths for me are twined,
While summer's fragrance lingers on the wind,
And green fields wait for me.

- George Arnold.

IN THE COUNTRY.

'O one who has been long in city pent
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair ·

And open face of heaven, to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel, an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by,
Even like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.

THE FOREST.

-John Keats.

I

LOVE the forest; I could dwell among

That silent people, till my thoughts up grew

In nobly ordered form, as to my view

Rose the succession of that lofty throng: