EARLY GOLDENROD. 'N the first drowsy heat of August noon, IN Ere yet the pastures are embrowned and dry, Or yet the swallow breathes her parting sigh, Under the red sun and the crimson moon, Greeting us all too soon, Comes the plumed goldenrod with flaunting train, At July sun and rain. With thy approach the year seems waxing late, Far off we scarce can hear the "Harvest Home,” Well-pleased with maids to wait. When I the sunshine of thy bloom behold, I am the richer for thy lavishness. Thy Midas touch hath turned the land to gold For me to have and hold. - Abbie Frances Judd. AUGUST. HE yellow goldenrod is dressed THE In gala-day attire; The glowing redweed by the fence Shines like a crimson fire; And from the hot field's farthest edge The cricket's soft refrain With mellow accent tells the tale In shining blue the aster wild. And adds her voice to swell the song The dusty thistle by the road The sun pours down his scorching beams. The blackberry vine bends with its weight Of fruit down in the lane, And adds its testimony, too, That August's here again. The wild hop, from the young elm's bough, And here and there the autumn tints Gleam faintly through the trees. All Nature helps to swell the song And chant the same refrain; July and June have slipped away And August's here again. A IN SUMMER-TIME. GOLDEN glory lies along the hills, A few light cirri float across the blue Silently through the meadows flows the stream, Of silver, where 'mong rocks, its eddying ring High overhead the bright sun holds his way ; The apples catch his fire at close of day; Pears, berries, flowers, he gives rich strength to each; Make the grapes purple grow along the wall. And weirdly sounds the whippoorwill's wild rhyme, ONE DAY. They wave, like banners hasting in retreat Before the whelming fury of the foe. Now here, now there, one sinks to rise no more; A brook that chants in ceaseless monotone Small summer insects chirp amid the blades Once, starting from his thicket in the grass, And over all there comes a sudden stir; E THE SUN-FLOWER. AGLE of flowers! I see thee stand, With eye like his, thy lids expand, And fringe their disk with golden rays; So would mine eagle-soul descry, Beyond the path where planets run, The light of immortality, The splendor of creation's sun; Though sprung from earth, and hastening to the tomb, In hope a flower of paradise to bloom, I look to heaven. -James Montgomery. I TIGER-LILIES. LIKE not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor yet the flaky roses, For they are tall and slender; Their mouths are dashed with carmine, And when the wind sweeps by them, |