Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, A wreath, not of gold, but palm! One day, Thou too must tread, as we tread, a way Will snatch at thy crown; but go on, glorious Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the King!" SUMMER CHANGES. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.1 SANG the lily and sang the rose, Sang the trees, as they rustled together: "O the joy of the summer weather! Roses and lilies, how do you fare?” 1 It was to Philip Bourke Marston that Miss Mulock's poem, "Philip, my King," was addressed in his infancy. In after life he met with many misfortunes, and entirely lost his eye-sight. He was frequently called "the blind poet." Sang the red rose, and sang the white: "Glad we are of the sun's large light, And the songs of the birds that dart through the air." Lily, and rose, and tall green tree, Golden butterflies gleam in the sun, And great bees come, with their sleepy tune, And the flowers are lulled by that drowsy sound, And fall asleep in the heart of the noon. A small white cloud in a sky of blue: For a wind springs up and sings in the trees. That were rocked to sleep by the gentle breeze. Ah, roses and lilies! Each delicate petal This way and that way the tall trees sway: And the flowers grow glad in the sun's warm ray. Sing, my lilies, and sing, my roses, With never a dream that the summer closes! THE BLIND BOY. COLLEY CIBBER. O, SAY, what is that thing called light, You talk of wondrous things you see: My day and night myself I make, And could I always keep awake, With heavy sighs I often hear Then let not what I cannot have My peace of mind destroy; While thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy! I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. THOMAS HOOD. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born; I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, And summer pools could hardly cool I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; To know I'm farther off from heaven THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often at noon when returned from the field, |