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And thy approving voice would be
More sweet, more welcome, far, to me,
Than greenest wreaths of minstrelsy,

Plucked from the Muses' bowers.
And round this lowly harp of mine
I'd rather that a hand like thine
One simple garland should entwine,

Than Amaranthine flowers.

My childish griefs were hushed to rest-
Those lips on mine fond kisses prest-
Those arms my feeble form caressed,

When few a thought bestowed.
When sickness threw its venomed dart,
My pillow was thy aching heart ;
Thy gentle looks would joy impart,

With angel love they flowed.

This world is but a troubled sea,
And rude its billows seem to me;
Yet my frail bark must shipwrecked be

Ere I forget such friend.
Or send an orison on high,
That begs not blessings from the sky,
That Heaven will hear a daughter's sigh,

And long thy life defend.

Something abont Inne .

“ Summer is come! Summer is come!
The busy bee, with its joyous hum,
Kisses the blossoms, rifles the flowers,
And melody gives to the passing hours,
The nightingale singeth a merry tune,
In the soft clear light of the yellow moon.
The lark singeth, too, on the first beam of day,
And gladdens the heart of the sunset ray.
All is light, all is joy, and each heart is gay,
In the bloom of the flowers and the new-mown hay."

ES, Summer is come—the SWALLOWS are here-
say what the croakers will. Summer is come-the
trees are all out and dressed. The old oaks look
young again—the gnarled walnuts are fresh and
green. The meadows are knee high in grass—the

roses are out—the wheat is getting into ear. The gardens sparkle with marygolds, lupins, carnations, Chinese pinks, hollyhocks, lady's slipper, stocks, campanulas, perrywinkles, wallflowers, and the prettiest of the cornflowers, is in fullest blossom; in short, the glory of the year is here.




The Saxons called June “Weydmonat, because their beastes did then weyd in the meddowes; that is to say, goe to feed there, and hereof a meadow is also in the Tutonicke, called a weyd, and of weyd we doe yet retaine our word wade, which we understand of going through watery places, such as meadows were wont to be," as Verstegan sayeth. The Saxons also called June, Woedmonath,


and woed meant weed, for then the weed springeth “lustilee.” The birds are in the beginning of this month for the most part in song. The nightingale has not quite ceased. The lark, also the blackbird and the thrush, are not quite mute, and the woodlark, the blackcap, and the goldfinch, are full of music above in the tall trees, while below, we have another pleasant little singer, i.e., the fieldcricket, whose clear shrill voice the warm weather has now matured to its full strength, and who must not be forgotten, though he has but one song to offer us all his life long, and that one consisting of one note; for it is a note of joy, and will not be heard without engendering its like. You may hear him in wayside banks, where the sun falls hot, shrilling out his loud cry into the still air all day long, as he sits at the mouth of his cell, and if you chance to be passing by the same spot at midnight, you may hear it there too.


in it.

But let us have a few words on the rural occupations of the month, and especially of the two most celebrated-sheep-shearing and hay-making; and there is nothing more delightful than to

Often has Peter Parley tossed the hay about in the engage fields of Suffolk, in the meadows of Farmer Boroughs; and many a good roll has he had among the haycocks, and many a good day at sheep-shearing

Sheep-shearing, if not so full of variety as the hay harvest, is still

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