We suck the bloom of the eglantine,--
Of the pointed thistle and brier;
And follow the track of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth, supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And reach for a state still higher.
As each, on the good of the others bent,
Is busy, and cares for all,
We hope for an evening with hearts content,--
That Winter may find us without lament
For a Summer that's gone, with its hours misspent,
And a harvest that's past recall!
=The Summer is Come=
CHILDHOOD'S RURAL SONG.
The Summer is come
With the insect's hum,
And the birds that merrily sing.
And sweet are the hours,
And the fruits and flowers,
That Summer has come to bring.
All nature is glad,
And the earth is clad
In her brightest and best array:
So, we with delight
Will our songs unite,
Our tribute of joy to pay.
The swallow is out,
And she sails about
In air, for the careless fly:
Then she takes a sip
With her horny lip
As she skims where the waters lie.
And the lamb bounds light
In his fleece of white,
But he doesn't know what to think,
In the streamlet clear,
Where he sees appear
His face as he stoops to drink.
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