SCYTHE BEARERS. Sturdy mowers, in the morning early, Sharpen cheeping scythes, all wet with dew, When the sun is high, in mid-day splendour, Long the daylight lasts-the broad backs bending Oh sweet scented days of blythe haymaking! When the deepening twilight gloom is falling, All unwilling for the night's repose. Such the strength that won old England's glory, QUESTANT. "The peaches on the garden wall Were lately hard and green; Whence come those hues of crimson bloom, "So tints the sun each fruit and flower They bask in his bright fostering smile, Like mirror'd harebells in the depth That glorious planet's golden warmth Gives colour to the peach.” "But whence the perfume of the flowers? The juice of luscious pines? Doth, then, the cause of these dwell higher, Another voice came whispering low, HESPERUS. In the old sequestered orchard; Of the busy town. Where the ruddy fruit o'erhanging, Where kind nature's blazoned missal Bounty, in the rich profusion Sweet pomaceous perfumed juices On moss-cumbered fronds abound; Plenty, her ambrosial incense, Lingering rays still lean and shimmer Hark! a deep-toned organ's fullness— Children's voices sweet and clear! 'Tis the holy hymn of evening In the chapel near. White robed thoughts of heavenly glory, Cloud-lit, radiant vistas opening, Shines a welling cup of mercy, Borne by bright-winged seraphim, Hither wafted on the echoings Of that evening hymn. DROUGHT AND RAIN. The time of drought has lasted long: No pasture on the plain: Plants, shrubs, and trees all drooping bow The fruit hangs rotting on the branch; The sun strikes on the brain Of workers, in the heated air Unfreshened by the rain. The lowing herds, the bleating sheep Dry throats grow voiceless in the want A little while and then no more All weak with heat, and faint with thirst, A cry goes up from human souls: Cast not thine anger on us thus ; Dark drifting clouds,-the baffling wind Drives to and fro the vane ;— Now! sweetly comes the welcome sound, The pattering on the pane. Earth revels in the rushing flood, The downpour on the plain That, scorched and cracked and parched and burnt, Now drinks the plashing rain. Rationalistic foes, forbear! Our creed we will maintain; A SKETCH FROM NATURE. I hear a sure token, A herald has spoken, The sweet spell is broken Harsh breezes are sighing, Bright hours are fleeting, Of evening or morn. Gay summer is going The sweet meadow mowing, The reaping and sowing, Are over and past; The robin is singing, The summer's knell ringing, His yellow leaves fast. As twilight falls lightly, |