WELL, she is here again!-the bright-browed, rosy-lipped Summer is come afresh, with her crystal streams, and bowery grottos, and cloudless heaven-her "many a voice of one delight," and her one robe of many colors-is come with carte blanche, as it were, to atone for the churlishness of her elder sister, Spring, by a redundant succession of fair golden morns, of bland, balmy, perhaps somewhat sleepy-eyed noons, and, above all, of magnificent evenings, all gladness and glory, yet with a slight soupçon of pensiveness mingled, which very gradually augments, until at length it assumes the character of a voluptuous melancholy, as the dusk deepens and the moon rises, and the pure, pale stars emerge one after another from their pavilions of æther into the sombre fields of the sky. Yes-Summer is again come, and not alone-for she has a companion, and the name of her companion is Song. For is it not in this sweet season that

The wind's, the birds', the ocean-flood's,
The city's voice itself grows soft,

through the medium and agency of that elemental harmony which has the advantage over all other music in this—that it is at once the most transcendental and the most intelligible? Is not the human heart made, by the influence of Summer, alive to all divine impulses? Cannot "the meanest flower that blows," the smallest laughter of the brook, the lightest air that fans the cheek of Beauty, the faintest sigh whispered through the tremulous reed, awaken in the lovely days of June emotions and susceptibilities within us, of whose very existence we had scarcely any consciousness before-breaking up the frozen fountains of feeling, and sending their wealthy and abundant waters out to refresh and revivify the heart which the baleful influences of the human world had almost parched up and withered? Ah, doubt it not! And although the Spirit of Poesy be the rarest of earthly apparitions-so that in many ages, and among many thousand millions of men One Poet is justly held up to the close of time as an unforgotten wonder-yet the power of understanding and sympathising with the overflowings of that Spirit is the common and glorious heritage of all, and will remain so as long as Joy, and Sorrow, and Hope, and Dread shall continue to agitate the ever-beating hearts of humankind.

Pondering these truths for thine especial benefit, dearest reader, we have been induced to collect a garland of choice poetical flowers of the season, and present them to thee with our compliments, and also with our congratulations, which latter, as soon as thy critical eye shall have detected the pre-eminent excellence of our bouquet, thou wilt doubtless at once concede to be neither misplaced nor presumptuous.

Behold them then, and judge, which in the present case is merely saying, Admire. They lie before thee, awaiting thine acceptance. Thou perceivest that there are many of them, yet let us hope that there are still too few. And though their odour is very delicious, we will trust that it cannot be called quite overpowering; and if their tints are bright even to radiance, yet we feel that the VOL. XIII.

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eye, as it rests upon them, is not in overmuch peril of being either palled with lustre or disgusted by gaudiness. The taste, indeed, that presided over the selection of them thou wilt hardly feel disposed to call in question, when we inform thee that, fair, and soft, and pure as they appear to thee and all, the hands that in sunny garden or wildwood bower, "in glen, or copse, or forestdingle," culled the greater number of them, were not less fair, or soft, or pure than they.

Here they are they may speak for themselves. And if, as we doubt not, it be agreed upon all hands that we have rather under-praised than exaggerated their beauties and perfections, we may perhaps be allowed to encourage the hope that although this happens to be the first, it shall not by any means be the last occasion upon which we shall feel it equally our delight and our duty to present thee and all our readers with A MIDSUMMER ANTHOLOGY.

TWELVE SKETCHES FROM THE ANTIQUE.

BY MISS M. A. BROWNE.

NO. I.THE SLEEPING BACCHANAL.

Who sleepeth by the waters calm that through the forest

pass ?

The crowned-with-grapes, whose naked limbs rest 'midst the quivering grass ? His yellow wind-uplifted hair falls gently on his brow,

And the blue, swelling veins stand full upon that forehead's snow.

One hand, that slackly holds a flower, upon his chest is laid,

A crimson flower, plucked in mirth, that casts a crimson shade;
The other by his side is lying, sleep-disarmed of might,
And one flushed cheek is pillowed upon his shoulder white.

And there's a golden-chased cup, flung empty by his side,
Its last red drops are mingling with the gently-flowing tide;
And a red-blossomed tree grows near, and bends above his head,
Leaning, as if it stooped to hear his pulses have not fled,

So strange his stillnes, 'twere not strange to deem that he were dead!

The sun is setting, and the chill and dewy night comes soon;
Bring flowers, oh nymphs! to cover him from the pale, chilly moon,
Or, satyrs! from your coverts come, and watch his slumbers deep,
So that the eager night-winds fail to steal his life from sleep.

NO. II.A NYMPH BATHING.

It is a lone and quiet spot,

O'ershadowed by the meeting boughs,
And from the low, wet, mossy grot,
With gentle chime, the water flows,
And circles bubbling, fresh, and cool,
Through the broad basin of a placid pool.

There is a solemn quietude

In its intensity of shade;

There might the soul untroubled brood,
Nor of disturbance be afraid;

The trees are all too tall to win

The little woodland birds to build therein.

There stems stand singly on the grass,
With no low coppice interlaced;
No hare's or rabbit's footsteps pass,

They love the sheltering woodland waste :

Only a strong sunbeam at noon

Sometimes illumes the pool in burning June.

'Tis noon, and in that month of flowers, And singing rills, and cloudless skies ;Here little difference make the hours

Or times, save in the canopies

Of leaves, that change, and fade, and fall,
And are renewed, when spring reviveth all.

A spirit is within the place;
Surely its living deity!

Had ever mortal such a face,

Or such a clear and speaking eye ?
An eye that speaks with light intense,
Though none be near to read its eloquence.

In simple mantle is she wound,

A robe of richest silk enwrought;

Her hair about her head is bound,

And wreathed behind in massive knot

Her feet are bare, and, gliding free,
Move through the grass like living ivory.

She glances round; a shade of fear

Is in her eye, yet scarce a shade,-
She glances round, though none be near-
Then takes the fillet from her head,
Loosing her hair in many a fold
Over her form, like waves of sunny gold.

Then with another timid glance,

(What fears she in that silence dim?) With light, slow step doth she advance To the cool fountain's mossy brim; Then, with a sudden courage, lo!

She drops the mantle from her limbs of snow!

A moment stands she-in the flood

She sees her mirrored loveliness;
The gushing of the ready blood

In crimson veil her cheek doth dress;---
She springeth from the shore, and tries
To hide herself from her own lovely eyes.

Then raiseth up her beauteous head,
Veiled with its clinging dripping hair→→→
So, blushing, from the ocean's bed,

The morning lifts her forehead fair ;
But, lo! the vision fades, and I
But see that fairest nymph in memory.

NO. III.RURAL FESTIVAL TO PAN.

They come from the rocks and mountains,
They come from the smiling plains,
And from the crystal fountains,

They come the nymphs and swains;
And the hoary sage, and the matron mild,

And the stalwart man, and the laughing child,

Round the green altar gather,

To honour the forest father.

And a troop of dancers nimble,

Flit round on the tripping foot,
To the sound of the tinkling cymbal,
And the sweet breathed flute;

And wreathed with the wild rose comes the maiden, And the youth with his basket with ripe grapes laden ; Each at the altar proffering

To the wood-God a willing offering.

On come the votaries laughing,
Some at a mirthful song,

Some from the beech cup quaffing

The wine, as they reel along ;

Some leading the goat, who tosses, and turns,

And struggles to loose his flower-wreathed horns,
And bleats, and pushes insanely,

For liberty, oh, how vainly!

Hark how the song outgushes-
The song of praise to Pan;
The maiden's voice low rushes,
Loud sweeps the voice of man ;

And the flute's rich tone on the wind is borne,
And, anon, the long-drawn blast o' the horn.
Pan, thou art lurking near them,

And surely thou wilt hear them!

Hear them and bless their tillage,
And make their vineyards yield--

Shed mirth upon the village,

And plenty on the field;

Increase their corn, and oil, and wine,

And their flocks, and the milk of their lowing kine;

And be their goods defender,

For the homage that they render!

NO. IV.THE MEETING SCENE-A FRAGMENT.

They met within the forest shade,

A mortal prince, a sylvan maid—

He with a spirit scarce of human birth,

She with affections almost linked to earth.

He with the clear unshadowed eye,

Glad as the free and sunny sky;

She with the dark full languid orbs, that oft

Shot passionate lightnings thro' their radiance soft.

He with the brow of sunny white,

And the rich curls of golden light;

She with the olive forehead darkly clear,

And the brown tresses of untutored hair.

They met within the forest shade,

A beautiful and quiet glade ;

The tall arched trees above their heads did wave,

The undergrowth of myrtles fragrance gave;

The deep blue violet from beneath

The grass sent up its spicy breath;

The pale anemone and primrose small

Peeped here and there through the green moss's thrall.

They met the nymph had waited long,
She had forgotten smile and song,
Leaning her head betwixt the sapling trees,
Eagerly listening to each passing breeze.

She saw him coming, and away

She glided, and with fit delay

Came back when he had reached the meeting place,
And now the pair are standing face to face.

Sweet Dione! her heart had framed
Full fifty thoughts that must be named
When the long-waited-for should come,-
He came, and in his presence she was dumb!

Yet to her cheeks, and lips, and eyes,
Those wordless thoughts in torrents rise;
The eyes are bright, quivering the lips, the cheek
Radiant with blushes, yet she cannot speak.

A murmur low, a smile, was all

That struggled through that magic thrall;
But he had ready words, and fondly spoke,
And thus the spell that held the maiden broke.

NO. V. PHOEBUS.

He comes from the bright and glowing east, over the land and sea,
The thunder of his chariot wheels is a mighty harmony-
The harmony whose echo deep reaches the starry throng,
And leads, with glorious master tone, their everlasting song.
His chariot is of burnished gold, the wheels of silver bright,
The harness set with opal studs, the reins are beams of light:
But what the chariot to the steeds? And what the steeds to him
Before whose presence even the gold and opal's light is dim?
On, on they come, those noble steeds! they need not whip or spur,
He only guides their fiery steps, lest in their course they err.
On, on they come, those tawny steeds! their manes are floating bright,
And every lofty forehead crowned with a star of radiance white;

And he he stands unwavering upon the chariot high,

And passes the lazy, wandering winds, like an arrow rushing by :
Beneath him are the mountains, in their many-coloured robe
Beneath him is the ocean, that girdle of the globe-

And his light and glory blesses them, yet never turns his eye
A moment from his onward course across the boundless sky.

His daily course is over-he lies on ocean's breast

His four bright steeds are stabled in the chambers of the west;
And a holy star is keeping a still watch above his head,

And a few faint clouds are floating round, like curtain's rosy red;
And to-morrow he shall rise again, as glorious and as bright,
Immortal in his splendour, unshadowed in his light.

NO. VI. AURORA.

The early mist lay white upon the earth,

The closed wet blossoms drooped upon the spray ;
'Twas even too early for the young birds' mirth
To hail the coming of the gladsome day;

When from her eastern bower a lady peeped-
Her face was very youthful, and her hair,
In shadowy folds, half veiled her shoulders fair.
Her eyes, scarce free from dreams, were fondly steeped
In swimming azure light-without a zone
Flowed her grey, misty mantle to her feet;