August.

Henriette A. Hadry.

UST on thy mantle! dust,

DUST

Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!

A tarnish as of rust,

Dims thy late brilliant sheen:

And thy young glories-leaf, and bud, and flower

Change cometh over them with every hour.

Thee hath the August sun

Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face;

And still and lazily run,

Scarce whispering in their pace,

The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent

A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

Song for August.

Harriet Martineau.

BENEATH this starry arch,

Nought resteth or is still;

But all things hold their march
As if by one great will.
Moves one, move all;

Hark to the foot-fall!

On, on, for ever.

Yon sheaves were once but seed;
Will ripens into deed;

As eave-drops swell the streams,

Day thoughts yield nightly dreams,

And sorrow tracketh wrong,

As echo follows song.

On, on, for ever.

By night like stars on high,

The hours reveal their train;

They whisper and go by;

I never watch in vain.

THE CITY ROSE TO THE WILD ROSE.

Moves one, move all;

Hark to the footfall!

On, on, for ever.

They pass the cradle head,
And there a promise shed;
They pass the moist new grave,
And bid rank verdure wave;
They bear through every clime,
The harvests of all time,
On, on, for ever.

The City Rose to the Wild Rose.

Sarah Roberts.

HE wild bee brought your message,

THE

Just at the peep of day,

Tapping, buzzing at my window,

Then gayly flew away.

I thank you, fair young sister,

But 'twould break my heart to roam,

So many, many love me,

In my dusty city home.

215.

216

SARAH ROBERTS.

You tell of fresh, green meadows,
Of upland, hill, and glade,
Of the many merry sisters,

And the still and pleasant shade;
Of fragrant flowers around you,
Of a laughing, noisy brook,
Tripping gayly at your feet all day,
Reflecting every look.

You say we'll have sweet music
With the early morning light,
That the nightingale will cheer us,
Through all the Summer night;

That the humming-bird and bee
Shall do my bidding every day,
Bring all the city news to me
From friends so far away.

You say I must be lonely,

That you tremble for my health,
That the fresh and fragrant breezes
Are worth the city's wealth;
But could you see the fair young girl

That ministers to me,

You'd say how happy was my lot,

Cherished so tenderly.

THE CITY ROSE TO THE WILD ROSE. 217

There are but few to love her,

And why? alas, she's poor!
And toiling, toiling all the day,
She loveth me the more.

She smiles to see my beauty,
She'll weep when I am dead;
Wild sister, who will weep for you
When Winter bows your head?

She opes the window early,

To give me air and sun,

Then sitteth sadly at my side
To toil till day is done;

And when she rests her weary hands,

And drops a tear on me,

My sweetest fragrance I impart

And cheer her gratefully.

The children, poor and wretched,
Smile as they gaze on me,
And often stop in passing

And praise me timidly;
So I cannot leave my noisy home,
Though brighter are your hours;
I have the love of many hearts,
You've but the love of flowers.