Soft trembling as they felt the thrill The living soul of beauty fills. The air with glorious visions: bright They linger round the sunny hills, And wander in the clear, blue light: O, at this hour, when air and earth Each heart beats high; each thought is blown Of brighter worlds, and melts away, G.D. PRENTICE. LESSON CCII. AUGUST. DUST on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green! A tarnish, as of rust, Dims thy late brilliant sheen; And thy young glories,-leaf, and bud, and flower,Change cometh over them with every hour. Thee hath the August sun Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face; Scarce whispering in their pace, The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent Flame-like, the long mid-day! With not so much of sweet air as hath stirred Where rests the panting bird, Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, Seeds in the sultry air, And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees! Their plumes to catch the breeze, The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west, Partake the general languor and deep rest. Happy, as man may be, Stretched on his back, in homely bean-vine bower, While the voluptuous bee Robs each surrounding flower And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast, The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest. Against the hazy sky The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest. In the dim, distant west, The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare, Soberly, in the shade, Sheltered by jutting rocks: The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush Tediously pass the hours, Where the slant sunbeams shoot: But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line, Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline. Faster, along the plain, Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge : The kine are forth again, The bird flits in the hedge. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. Welcome, mild eve! the sultry day is done. Pleasantly comest thou, Dew of the evening, to the crisped-up grass; As the light breezes pass, That their parched lips may feel thee, and expand, So, to the thirsting soul, Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love: To where the spirit freely may expand, W. D. GALLAGHER. LESSON CCIII. SUMMER EVENING. THE summer day has closed, the sun is set: In the red west. The green blade of the ground Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown, From bursting cells, and, in their graves, await Insects from the pools Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, The mother-bird hath broken for her brood Their prison-shells, or shoved them from their nest, In bright alcoves, In woodland cottages with earthy walls, In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe. Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out, And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends. Farewell to the sweet sunshine! one glad day, By those who watch the dead, and those who twine W. C. BRYANT. LESSON CCIV. RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters upon the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs ! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window-pane, It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river, down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain! The sick man, from his chamber, looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again; And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighboring school With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, In the country on every side, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, To the dry grass and the drier grain, In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil, Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless, beating drops He counts it as no sin, That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, The Poet sees. He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fields of air, |