AUGUST. Tediously pass the hours, Where the slant sunbeams shoot: But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line, Faster, along the plain, Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge: The bird flits in the hedge. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. Pleasantly comest thou, Dew of the evening, to the crisp❜d-up grass; As the light breezes pass, That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand, So, to the thirsting soul, Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love; Turneth in joy above, To where the spirit freely may expand, And rove, untrammell'd, in that "better land." 6* 65 TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BY JONES VERY. BRIGHT image of the early years When glow'd my cheek as red as thou, The morning's blush, she made it thine, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well-known tree, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. And, hastening to each flowery nook, Fair child of art! thy charms decay, Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; THE EARLY DEAD. But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; And, rich with memory's sweet perfume, Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. There shalt thou live and wake the glee That echo'd on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee, My infant feet will seem to seek thee still. THE EARLY DEAD. BY WILLIS G. CLARK. If it be sad to mark the bow'd with age In the still darkness of the mouldering gloom : They to whose bosoms, like the dawn of spring How shall we lay them in their final rest, Life openeth brightly to their ardent gaze; A glorious pomp sits on the gorgeous sky; 67 69 THE PRAIRIES. Yet this is life! To mark from day to day, Sinking in waves of death ere chill'd by time! And yet what mourner, though the pensive eye Through whose far depths the spirit's wing careers ? THE PRAIRIES. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, THESE are the gardens of the desert, these And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fix'd, And motionless for ever. Motionless? No, they are all unchain'd again. The clouds THE PRAIRIES. Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not―ye have play'd Of Texas, and have crisp'd the limpid brooks That from the fountains of Sonora glide A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? Man hath no part in all this glorious work: The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 69 And smooth'd these verdant swells, and sown their slopes And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here- In the dim forest, crowded with old oaks, Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock |