To swell the reddening fruit that even now Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew. W. C. BRYANT. THE WREATH OF GRASSES. The royal rose-the tulip's glow- The pansy's gold and purple wing, The snowdrop's smile may light the lea; But while the fragrant grasses spring, My wreath of them shall be! FRANCES S. OSGOOD. DIVINATION. When a daffodil I see Hanging down his head toward me, Guess I may what I may be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead; Lastly, safely buried. ROBERT HERRICK, 1591. GRASS. Is all grass? Make you no distinction? No; all is grass; or if you will have some other name, be it so. Once, this is true, that all flesh is grass; and if that glory which shines so much in your eyes must have a difference, then this is all that it can have-it is but the flower of that same grass; somewhat above the common grass in gayness, a little comelier and better appareled than it, but partakes of its frail and fading nature. It hath no privilege nor immunity that way; yea, of the two is less durable, and usually shorter lived; at the last it decays with "The grass withereth; and the flower thereof fadeth away." ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON, 1613-1684. it. DAFFODILS. I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they In such a jocund company; I gazed and gazed-but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye, Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, W. WORDSWORTH. IX. Medley. GRONGAR HILL. ILENT nymph, with curious eye! ST Who, the purple evening, lie Gives luster to the land and sky! Grongar Hill invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells, Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, Sat upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head, While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, About his checker'd sides I wind, As circles on a smooth canal. The mountains round, unhappy fate! Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others rise. Still the prospect wider spreads, Adds a thousand woods and meads; Still it widens, widens still, And sinks the newly-risen hill. Now I gain the mountain's brow, What a landscape lies below! But the gay, the open scene, In all the hues of heaven's bow! Old castles on the cliffs arise, Below me trees unnumbered rise, The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs, And beyond the purple grove, Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! Lies a long and level lawn, On which a dark hill, steep and high, His sides are cloth'd with waving wood, But transient is the smile of Fate! And see the rivers how they run, Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, Ever charming, ever new, When will the landscape tire the view! The fountain's fall, the river's flow, The woody valleys, warm and low; |