And I'll reign in triumph till autumn time, Shall conquer my green and verdant pride; Then I'll hie me to another clime, Till I'm called again as a sunny bride. SUMMER. HE montns we used to read of With sunniness and sunniness, And rare delights of rain; The lark is up, and says aloud, East and west I see no cloud. The lanes are full of roses, The sunshine at our waking Is still found smiling by; With beamingness and earnestness, And all the day it seems to take Delight in being wide awake. The lasses in the gardens Show forth their heads of hair, With rosiness and lightsomeness, A chasing here and there; And then they'll hear the birds, and stand, ANON. The Song of Summer. And then again they're off there As if their lovers came, Ah! light your cheeks at Nature, do, 193 LEIGH HUNT. THE SONG OF SUMMER. MID the heath of northern hills, Where early sunshine shone On verdant woods and shining streams, And summits gray and lone, A minstrel from his native home With rustic lyre came forth, And thus in native numbers sang The Summer of the North: "We see the glory of thy steps The joy of every shore! Our skies have gained their deepest blue, Our woods their vernal prime, For heaven and earth rejoice in thee, Thou glorious summer time! Thine are the long and cloudless days, Whose lingering glories meet the morn, And leave no room for night; The freshness of the early dew, The glow of breathless noon, And the showers, for which the woodlands wait, As for a promised boon. Thy roses send their sweetness forth From leafy bower and brake, And thy lilies spread their floating snow Upon the sunlit lake; To the old forest's lonely depth Thy presence joy imparts, And reaches, through the clouds of care, The depths of human hearts. Well hath our dreamy childhood loved To wander forth with thee To leafy grove and grassy glen, And fountain fresh and free. But where are they that in those fair For hope hath changed to weariness, And see it only through the thorns But thou art bright and changeless still, Summer Song of the Strawberry Girl. Thy brow hath known no touch of time, Thine eye no trace of tears; For still as bright its sunshine falls Upon the woods and waves, On broken hearts or graves!" 195 FRANCIS BROWN. SUMMER SONG. HE sun is careering in glory and might, And the summer breezes go lightly by; The linnet is singing the wild wood through: And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee; MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. SUMMER SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. T is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it looks; A singing-bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the opening buds; Or seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash-tree's root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit? They tell me that my father's poor—that is no grief to me, When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturned eye can see; They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy and gem; It may be so and yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are mine, And then the fruit! the glowing fruit, how sweet the scent it breathes! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green leaves! Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh! summer is a pleasant time with all its sounds and sights; Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm delights; I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain, And all the winter long I sing-sweet summer, come again. MARY HOWITT. A SUMMER'S EVENING. OW fine has the day been, how bright was the sun, began, And there followed some droppings of rain. |