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And ever since earth began, that look
There are teachings in earth, and sea, and air,
- E. Taylor.
THE harvest ! the harvest ! how fair on each plain
The harvest ! the harvest ! how brightly the sun
The harvest! the harvest! once more we behold
A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken locks,
A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
And towers that touch imaginary skies.
A fearless rider on his father's knee,
An eager listener unto stories told
Of heroes and adventures manifold.
There will be other towers for thee to build,
There will be other steeds for thee to ride,
With greater marvels and more glorified.
Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
Rising and reaching upward to the skies,
THE COMING OF THE MAY.
ALL nature seems to feel the power,
The gracious influence of the time,
And speak of coming May.
Along their paths of peace.
The coming of the May.
That sail athwart the ethereal sea,
Of rich melodious glee.
THE COMING OF THE MAY.
175 The throstle in the forest dell
Begins to chant his changeful lay ;
The music of the May.
A thousand odours will diffuse,
Kindle with dazzling hues ;
With silver every hawthorn spray ;
The blooming of the May.
To this enchanting month of flowers,
To spend their playful hours.
Through pleasant field and woodland way,
Beneath the smile of May.
For every good the seasons bring,
That wakens with the spring ?
So that it may let in the day-
The blessing of the May.
The gifts and grandeurs of the sod,
Unto the Giver-God!
The prayer of virtuous deeds-alway,
F. C. Prince
Her silver-voiced lips gaily breathing a tune,
She comes, blushing maiden, the rosy-cheeked June ! She comes, and the toilers in each city grim,
Afar from the meads and the lily-fringed streams, In joy dash aside the dark sorrows which dim
The wee little shine of their life's saddened dreams; Forgetting awhile all their trials and strife,
The duli, cheerless factories, the long toiling hours, They sing the glad strains of a blithe country life,
'Mid the brooklets and meadows, the forests and flowers.
She comes, and the hearts of the young children thrill
As, crouching in byeways, in courts, and in lanes, They hear the caged linnet its sweetest notes trill
O'er all the harsh noise of the rude market wains. Poor souls! how they gaze, with the old soulless smile,
On each golden cloud floating silent above The frail crazy chimney or smoke-blackened tile,
Like angels of mercy on mission of love. 'T is little they know of the soft mossy dells,
The fern-tangled brakes or the daisy-starred leas; They never have gathered the tiny bluebells,
Or romped ’neath the shade of the old chestnut-trees.
She comes, and the eyes of the pale seamstress shine,
As bending in joy o'er her prized mignonette, One sweet little blossom she plucketh, to twine
'Mid her soft curling locks of rich glossy jet, Or fondly enclose with her kisses to one,
Her true-hearted sailor, who on the salt sea
And dreams of the time when his bride she shall be.
That-evermore smiling-thou sunshine dost bring To soothe for awhile the lorn hearts of the poor,
And nature's fair treasures around them to fling!