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And ever since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book-
To win them back from the lore they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.

There are teachings in earth, and sea, and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare ;
But, louder than voice beneath or above,
He is heard to speak through a mother's love.

- E. Taylor.

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THE harvest ! the harvest ! how fair on each plain
It waves in its golden luxuriance of grain !
The wealth of a nation is spread on the ground,
And the year with its joyful abundance is crowned.
The barley is whitening on upland and lea,
And the oat-locks are drooping, all graceful to see,
Like the long yellow hair of a beautiful maid,
When it flows on the breezes unloosed from the braid.



The harvest ! the harvest ! how brightly the sun
Looks down on the prospect! Its toils are begun;
And the wheat-sheaves so thick in the valleys are piled,
That the land in its glorious profusion has smiled ;
The reaper has shouted the furrows among,
In the midst of his labour he breaks into song ;
And the light-hearted gleaners, forgetful of care,
Laugh loud and exult as they gather their share.

The harvest! the harvest! once more we behold
Fair plenty arrayed in its livery of gold;
We are spared to exult in its bounties again.
A year hath been granted, and shall we remain
Forgetful of Him who hath lengthened our days ?
Great God of the harvest, to Thee be the praise !
Thou hast prospered our toils and hast given the increase,
And established the land in abundance and peace.

-Agnes Strickland.


A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken locks,

A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,

And towers that touch imaginary skies.

A fearless rider on his father's knee,

An eager listener unto stories told
At the round table of the nursery,

Of heroes and adventures manifold.

There will be other towers for thee to build,

There will be other steeds for thee to ride,
There will be other legends, and all filled

With greater marvels and more glorified.

Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,

Rising and reaching upward to the skies,
Listen to voices in the upper air,
Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.

-Long fellow.


ALL nature seems to feel the power,

The gracious influence of the time,
The quickening sun, the fostering

Of the returning prime.
The tranquil and the lessening night,
The genial and the lengthening

Which move us with a new delight,

And speak of coming May.
Trees burgeon into leafy grace,
The hedgerows wear a vernal

The brooklets leave a greener trace

Along their paths of peace.
A flower-light dawns upon the leas,
The woodland nooks grow sweetly

And whispers every passing breeze

The coming of the May.
A voyager the clouds among,

That sail athwart the ethereal sea,
The lark pours forth his joyous song

Of rich melodious glee.



175 The throstle in the forest dell

Begins to chant his changeful lay ;
And other voices soon will swell

The music of the May.
Awhile, and the clear country air

A thousand odours will diffuse,
And cultured gardens, here and there,

Kindle with dazzling hues ;
The meads will gleam with floral gold,

With silver every hawthorn spray ;
And children's eyes with joy behold

The blooming of the May.
Young children-oh! 'how like they are

To this enchanting month of flowers,
When through her realm they wander far,

To spend their playful hours.
With shout and laughter on they speed,

Through pleasant field and woodland way,
And health and pleasure are their meed,

Beneath the smile of May.
And should not toiling man rejoice

For every good the seasons bring,
Responsive to each gladsome voice,

That wakens with the spring ?
Let his soul open and be calm,

So that it may let in the day-
The bloom, the beauty, and the balm,

The blessing of the May.
And while we love the glorious skies,

The gifts and grandeurs of the sod,
Let the heart's hidden incense rise

Unto the Giver-God!
May we so live a life of prayer-

The prayer of virtuous deeds-alway,
That we may breathe the holier air
Of heaven's eternal May.

F. C. Prince

Lo! crowned with rich garlands of loveliest blue,

Her silver-voiced lips gaily breathing a tune,
Whose music e'er ringeth the olden woods through,

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
Oft leans on the bulwarks that bleach in the sun,

And dreams of the time when his bride she shall be.
O June, bonnie June, I but love thee the more,

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!

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