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Ye have beheld where they

With wicker arks did come, To kiss and bear away

The richer cowslips home; You've heard them sweetly sing,

And seen them in a round; Each virgin, like the Spring,

With honeysuckles crowned. But now we see none here

Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair

Adorned this smoother mead.
Like unthrifts, having spent

Your stock, and needy grown,
You're left here to lament
Your poor estates alone.

ROBERT HERRICK.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,

Land and water, sun and shade Work with these, as bids thy reason,

For they work thy toil to aid.
Sow thy seed, and reap in gladness!

Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness -
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.

JOHN STERLING.

The Husbandman.

To the Fringed Gentian. Trou blossom, bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night; Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue - blue - as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

EARTH, of man the bounteous mother,

Feeds him still with corn and wine; He who best would aid a brother,

Shares with him these gifts divine. Many a power within her bosom,

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath; Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom,

Golden ear and clustered wreath.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

These to swell with strength and beauty

Is the royal task of man;
Man's a king; his throne is duty,

Since his work on earth began.
Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage -

These, like man, are fruits of earth; Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage,

All from dust receive their birth. Barn and mill, and wine-vat's treasures,

Earthly goods for earthly lives These are Nature's ancient pleasures;

These her child from her derives.

A Still way in Autumn.
I love to wander through the woodlands hoary,

In the soft gloom of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,

And, like a dream of beauty, glides away. How, through each loved, familiar path she lingers,

Serenely smiling through the golden mist, Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers,

Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst ;

What the dream, but vain rebelling,

If from earth we sought to flee "Tis our stored and ample dwelling;

"Tis from it the skies we see.

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What joy in dreamy ease to lie

Amid a field new shorn, And see all round on sunlit slopes

The piled-up stacks of corn: And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore !

seem

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining

To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls; With hoary plumes the clematis entwining,

Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls. Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning

Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams, through theirfringesraining,

Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. The moist winds breathe of crispèd leaves and

flowers, In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers

With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow,

Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow,

The gentian nods, in dreamy slumbers bound. Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding,

Like a fond lover loath to say farewell; Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding,

Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. The little birds upon the hill-side lonely

Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray, Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only

Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. Thescentless flowers, in the warm sunlight dreaming,

Forget to breathe their fulness of delight; And through the trancèd woods soft airs are stream

ing, Still as the dew-fall of the Summer night. So, in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling

Stirs, like the wind in Ocean's hollow shell, Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing, Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell.

SARAN HELEN WHITMAN.

I feel the day – I see the field,

The quivering of the leaves, And good old Jacob and his house

Binding the yellow sheaves ;
And at this very hour I
To be with Joseph in his dream.
I see the fields of Bethlehem,

And reapers many a one, Bending unto their sickles' stroke;

And Boaz looking on; And Ruth, the Moabite so fair, Among the gleaners stooping there. Again I see a little child,

His mother's sole delight,God's living gift of love unto

The kind good Shunamite ; To mortal pangs I see him yield, And the lad bear him from the field.

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,

The fields of Galilee,
That eighteen hundred years ago

Were full of corn, I see; And the dear Saviour takes His way 'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.

Oh, golden fields of bending corn,

How beautiful they seem !
The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,

To me are like a dream.
The sunshine and the very air
Seem of old time, and take me there.

Mary Howitt.

Cornfields.

Autumn flowers.

When on the breath of autumn breeze

From pastures dry and brown,
Goes floating like an idle thought

The fair white thistle-down,
Oh then what joy to walk at will
Upon the golden harvest hill!

Those few pale Autumn flowers,

How beautiful they are ! Than all that went before, Than all the Summer store,

How lovelier far !

And why? - They are the last !

The last! the last! the last !
Oh! by that little word
How many thoughts are stirred

That whisper of the past !

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the

shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all

the gloomy day.

Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers !

Ye're types of precious things;
Types of those bitter moments,
That flit, like life's enjoyments,

On rapid, rapid wings:

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers that

lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sis

terhood Alas ! they all are in their graves; the gentle race

of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and

good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold

November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely

ones again.

Last hours with parting dear ones

(That Time the fastest spends),
Last tears in silence shed,
Last words half uttered,

Last looks of dying friends.

Who but would fain compress

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long life into a day,

ago, The last day spent with one

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the Who, ere the morrow's sun,

summer glow; Must leave us, and for ayet

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in

the wood, O precious, precious moments !

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn Pale flowers ! ye're types of those;

beauty stood, The saddest, sweetest, dearest,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as Because, like those, the nearest

falls the plague on men, To an eternal close.

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from

upland, glade, and glen.
Pale flowers! pale perishing flowers !

I woo your gentle breath
I leave the Summer rose

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still
I'or younger, blither brows;

such days will come, Tell me of change and death!

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their

winter home; CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though

all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the

rill, The Weath of the flowers.

The south wind searches for the flowers whose The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the

fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the year,

stream no more. Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows

brown and sere. Heaped in the bollows of the grove, the autumn And then I think of one who in her youthful leaves lie dead;

beauty died, They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rab- The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by

bit's tread.

my side.

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For here the fair savannas know

No barriers in the bloomy grass ; Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. In pastures measureless as air,

The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear

The branches, falls before my aim.

Mine are the river-fowl that scream

From the long stripe of waving sedge ; The bear that marks my weapon's gleam

Hides vainly in the forest's edge; In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;

The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey,

Even in the act of springing dies.

My Heart's in the Highlands. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth ; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high covered with

snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

ROBERT BURNS.

With what free growth the elm and plane

Fling their huge arms across my way Gray, old, and cumbered with a train

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind

Where never scythe has swept the glades.

The Hunter's Song.

The Last Rose of Summer.

Rise! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn.
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back like a beaten

hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.
Hark, hark ! - Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble
corn ?

The horn,- the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn.

'Tis the last rose of Summer

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

Now, through the copse where the fox is

found,
And over the stream at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands and over the low,
O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go!
Away!-- as a hawk flies full at his prey,
So flieth the hunter, away, away!
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and — the day is done.
Hark, hark !- What sound on the wind is

borne !
'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn :

The horn,- the horn!
The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

Thomas MOORE.

run

Sound ! Sound the horn! To the hunter good

To Autumn.
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood !
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness !
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun !
Oh, what delight can a mortal lack,

Conspiring with him how to load and bless
When he once is firm on his horse's back,

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong, And the blast of the horn for his morning To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core — Hark, hark ! - Now home ! and dream till To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel

shells Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn! With a sweet kernel — to set budding, more The horn,- the horn!

And still more, later flowers for the bees, Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter'8 Until they think warm days will never cease, horn!

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy

cells.

song 1

morn

BARRY CORNWALL.

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