O'er all, the bees with murmuring music flew
From bell to bell, to sip the treasured dew;
Whilst insect myriads, in their solar gleams,
Glanced to and fro, like intermingling beams;
So fresh, so pure, the woods, the sky, the air,
It seem'd a place where angels might repair;
And tune their harps beneath those tranquil shades
To morning songs or moonlight serenades.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

NATURE.

LOVE to set me on some steep
That overhangs the billowy deep,
And hear the waters roar ;
I love to see the big waves fly,
And swell their bosoms to the sky,

Then burst upon the shore.

I love, when seated on its brow,

To look o'er all the world below,

And eye the distant vale;

From thence to see the waving corn
With yellow hue the hills adorn,

And bend before the gale.

I love far downward to behold

The shepherd with his bleating fold,

And hear the tinkling sound

Of little bell and mellow flute,
Wafted on zephyrs soft, now mute,

Then swell in echoes round.

I love to range the valleys too,
And towering hills from thence to view,
Which rear their heads on high,
When nought beside, around, is seen
But one extended space between,
And overhead the sky.

I love to see, at close of day,

Spread o'er the hills the sun's broad ray,
While rolling down the west;

When every cloud in rich attire,
And half the sky, that seems on fire,
In purple robes is dress'd.

I love, when evening veils the day,
And Luna shines with silver ray,
To cast a glance around,

And see ten thousand worlds of light
Shine, ever new, and ever bright,
O'er the vast vault profound.

I love to let wild fancy stray,
And walk the spangled Milky Way
Up to the shining height,

Where thousand thousand burning rays
Mingle in one eternal blaze,

And charm the ravish'd sight.

I love from thence to take my flight,

Far downward on the beams of light,

And reach my native plain,

Just as the flaming orb of day

Drives night, and mists, and shades away, And cheers the world again.

ANON.

SUMMER TINTS.

OW sweet I've wandered bosom-deep in grain, When Summer's mellowing pencil sweeps the shade

Of ripening tinges o'er the chequered plain :

Light tawny oat-lands with a yellow blade;

And bearded corn like armies in parade;

Beans lightly scorched, that still preserve their green;
And nodding lands of wheat in bleachy brown ;
And streaking banks, where many a maid and clown
Contrast a sweetness to the rural scene,-

Forming the little haycocks up and down;

While o'er the face of nature softly swept

The lingering wind, mixing the brown and green
So sweet that shepherds from their bowers have crept,
And stood delighted musing o'er the scene.

CLARE.

A SUMMER SABBATH WALK.

ELIGHTFUL is this loneliness! it calms

My heart pleasant the cool beneath these elms,
That throw across the stream a moveless shade!
Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks;
How peaceful every sound!-the ring-dove's plaint,
Moaned from the twilight centre of the grove,

While every other woodland lay is mute,
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest,
And from the root-sprig trills her ditty clear,-
The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp, the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,

That, soon as loosed, booms with full twang away,—

The sudden rushing of the minnow-shoal,

Scared from the shallows by my passing tread.
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout
Watches his time to spring; or, from above
Some feathered dam, purveying 'midst the boughs,
Darts from her perch and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize :-sad emblem of man's lot!
He, giddy insect from his native leaf,
(Where safe and happily he might have lurked,)
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,

Forgetful of his origin, and, worse,

Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream;
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,

Buoyant he flutters but a little while,

Mistakes the inverted image of the sky

For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate.

JAMES GRAHAME.

A SUMMER DAY.

SUNRISE-FORENOON.

HE sun is rising, and an eastern breeze
Is blowing freshness through the waving trees;
The air is kindling into rosy light,

And Day rides forth in flaming chariot bright.

Thick-sown with freshening dew the meadow lies,
And misty vapours from the valley rise,

To curl like robes around the mountains dun,
Then melt away before the thirsty sun.

The rural revelry, that rang the while
The husbandman began his pleasant toil,
Now dies away, and Industry severe

In peace pursues the labours of the year.

The herds have settled to their pastures green,
An animated, yet a quiet scene;

Along the flowery sward they slowly pass,
And revel on the richness of the grass.

So silent grows the day, that even the bird
Among the rustling leaves is clearly heard,
And the sweet murmur of the tiny stream
That wild flowers shelter from the solar beam.

Now the clear sun looks fiercely down, and soon
Will he be mounted on the tower of noon;

The massy shadow of yon stately tree

Glooms like a dark isle in a tropic sea.