SUMMER MORNING.

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XXIX.

All things, save Man, this Summer morn rejoice:
Sweet smiles the sky, so fair a world to view;
Unto the earth below the flowers give voice;
Even the wayside weed of homeliest hue
Looks up erect amid the golden blue,

And thus it speaketh to the thinking mind :-
"O'erlook me not! I for a purpose grew,

Though long mayest thou that purpose try to find: On us one sunshine falls! God only is not blind!"

XXX.

England, my country!-land that gave me birth!
Where those I love, living or dead, still dwell,
Most sacred spot-to me-of all the earth;
England! "with all thy faults I love thee well."
With what delight I hear thy Sabbath bell
Fling to the sky its ancient English sound,
As if to the wide world it dared to tell

We own a God, who guards this envied ground, Bulwarked with martyrs' bones-where Fear was never

found.

XXXI.

Here might a sinner humbly kneel and pray,
With this bright sky, this lovely scene in view,
And worship Him who guardeth us alway !—

Who hung these lands with green, this sky with blue,
Who spake, and from these plains huge cities grew;
Who made thee, mighty England! what thou art,
And asked but gratitude for all His due.

The giver, God! claims but the beggar's part,
And only doth require "an humble, contrite heart.”

Thomas Miller.

BIRDS.

Он, the sunny summer time!
Oh, the leafy summer time!
Merry is the birds' life,

When the year is in its prime!
Birds are by the water-falls,

Dashing in the rainbow spray; Everywhere, everywhere,

Light and lovely things are they! Birds are in the forest old,

Building in each hoary tree;

Birds are on the green hills,
Birds are on the sea!

On the moor and in the fen,
'Mong the whortleberries green,
In the yellow furze-bush

There the joyous bird is seen;
In the heather on the hill,

All among the mountain thyme; By the little brooksides,

Where the sparkling waters chime; In the crag, and on the peak, Splintered, savage, wild, and bare, There the bird with wild wings Wheeleth through the air.

Wheeleth through the breezy air,

Singing, screaming in his flight,

Calling to his bird-mate,

In troubleless delight!

In the green and leafy wood,

Where the branching ferns upcurl, Soon as is the dawning

Wake the mavis and the merle; Wakes the cuckoo on the bough, Wakes the jay with ruddy breast, Wakes the mother ring-dove, Brooding on her nest!

Oh, the sunny summer time!
Oh, the leafy summer time!
Merry is the birds' life,

When the year is in its prime!
Some are strong, and some are weak,
Some love day, and some love night,
But whate'er a bird is,

Whate'er loves-it has delight

In the joyous song it sings,

In the liquid air it cleaves,
In the sunshine, in the shower,
In the nest it weaves.

Do we wake, or do we sleep,

Go our fancies in a crowd,

After many a dull care,

Birds are singing loud!

Sing then, linnet, sing then, wren,
Merle and mavis, sing your fill;
And thou, rapturous skylark,

Sing and soar up from the hill!

Sing, O nightingale, and pour
Out for us sweet fancies new;
Singing for us, birds,

We will sing of you!

Mary Howitt.

THE THRUSH'S NEST.

WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy-and oft, an unintruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day; How true she warped the moss to form her nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;

And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

John Clare.

TO THE RED-BREAST.

WHEN that the fields put on their gay attire,
Thou silent sitt'st near brake or river's brim,
Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim;
But when pale Winter lights the social fire,

THE GRASSHOPPER.

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And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire,
Thou charm'st us with thy soft and solemn hymn,
From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim;
And now not seldom turn'st, as if for hire,
Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch
The pittance due to thy well-warbled song;
Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch,
Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng,
And oft for entrance, 'neath the peaceful thatch,
Full many a tale have told and ditty long.

John Bampfylde.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY insect, what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently enjoy;

Nor does thy luxury destroy.