L

OW burns the summer afternoon;

A mellow lustre lights the scene; And from its smiling beauty soon

The purpling shade will chase the sheen.

The old, quaint homestead's windows blaze;
The cedars long black pictures show;
And broadly slopes one path of rays

Within the barn, and makes it glow.
The loft stares out-the cat intent,

Like carving, on some gnawing ratWith sun-bathed hay and rafters bent, Nooked cobwebbed homes of wasp and bat.

The harness, bridle, saddle, dart

Gleam from the lower, rough expanse;

At either side the stooping cart
Pitchfork and plow cast looks askance.
White Dobbin through the stable-doors
Shows his round shape; faint color coats
The manger, where the farmer pours,
With rustling rush, the glancing oats.
A sun-haze streaks the dusky shed;
Makes spears of seams and gems of chinks;
In mottled gloss the straw is spread;
And the gray grindstone dully blinks.
The sun salutes the lowest west
With gorgeous tints around it drawn;
A beacon on the mountain's breast,
A crescent, shred, a star--and gone.
-Anonymous.

WHY

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest; The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, Released by death, to thy benignant sphere, And the sad children of despair and woe

Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here. Oh that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!

-Charlotte Smith.

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn
Teemed her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower

That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known

The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweet heart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read,

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

Robert Herrick.

HEN took the generous host

THE

A basket filled with roses. Every guest Cried, "Give me roses!" and he thus addressed His words to all: "He who exalts them most In song, he only shall the roses wear."

Then sang a guest: "The rose's cheeks are fair;
It crowns the purple bowl, and no one knows
If the rose colors it, or it the rose."
And sang another: "Crimson is its hue,
And on its breast the morning's crystal dew
Is changed to rubies." Then a third replied:
"It blushes in the sun's enamored sight,
As a young virgin on her wedding night,

When from her face the bridegroom lifts the veil.”
When all had sung their songs, I, Hassan, tried.
"The rose," I sang, "is either red or pale,
Like maidens whom the flame of passion burns,
And love or jealousy controls, by turns.
Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss;
Its open flowers are like the blush of bliss
On lovers' cheeks; the thorns its armor are,
And in its center shines a golden star,
As on a favorite's cheek a sequin glows;-
And thus the garden's favorite is the rose."
The master from his open basket shook
The roses on my head.

-Bayard Taylor.