Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song:

In doors and out, summer and winter,-Mirth.

T

Leigh Hunt.

The Eighth Month

HE eighth was August, being rich arrayed
In garment all of gold down to the ground;
Yet rode he not, but led a lovely maid

Forth by the lily hand, the which was
crown'd

With ears of corn, and full her hand was found.
That was the virtuous virgin which of old
Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound;
But after wrong was loved and justice sold

She left the unrighteous world and was to heaven extolled.

Spenser.

A

August

CROSS the gap made by our English hinds,
Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold
Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd
binds

The withy round the hurdles of his fold;

Down in the foss the river fed of old,

That through long lapse of time has grown to be
The little grassy valley that you see.

Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still,
The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear
The barley mowers on the trenched hill,

The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir,
All little sounds made musical and clear

Beneath the sky that burning August gives,
While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.
William Morris.

B

The Solitary Reaper

EHOLD her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh, listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang,
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened till I had my fill,
And when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Wordsworth.

Among the Rocks

H, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones

To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet

For the ripple to run over in its mirth;

Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;

Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

Robert Browning.

The Joys of the Road

OW the joys of the road are chiefly these:
A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees;

A vagrant's morning wide and blue

In early fall, when the wind walks, too;

A shadowy highway cool and brown,
Alluring up and enticing down

From rippled water to dappled swamp,
From purple glory to scarlet pomp;

The outward eye, the quiet will,
And the striding heart from hill to hill;

The tempter apple over the fence;
The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince;

The palish asters along the wood,—
A lyric touch of the solitude;

An open hand, an easy shoe,

And a hope to make the day go through,

Another to sleep with, and a third

To wake me up at the voice of a bird;

The resonant far-listening morn,

And the hoarse whisper of the corn;

The crickets mourning their comrades lost,
In the night's retreat from the gathering frost.

And oh the joy that is never won,

But follows and follows the journeying sun,

By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream,
A will-o'-the-wind, a light-o'-dream,

Delusion afar, delight anear,

From morrow to morrow, from year to year,

A jack-o'-lantern, a fairy fire,

A dare, a bliss, and a desire!

The racy smell of the forest loam,

When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home;

(O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you,

Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!)

The broad gold wake of the afternoon;
The silent fleck of the cold new moon;

The sound of the hollow sea's release
From stormy tumult to starry peace;

With only another league to wend;
And two brown arms at the journey's end!

These are the joys of the open road—
For him who travels without a load.

Bliss Carman.

W

Anticipations

HEN still in the season
Of sunshine and leisure,
While blithe yet we wander
O'er meadow and Down,
O say is it treason

To think of the treasure
Heaped up for us yonder
In grey London town?