EARLY GOLDENROD.

N the first drowsy heat of August noon,
Ere yet the pastures are embrowned and dry,
Or yet the swallow breathes her parting sigh,
Under the red sun and the crimson moon,
Greeting us all too soon,

Comes the plumed goldenrod with flaunting train,
And lifts her yellow head along the way
Where sweet wild roses bloomed but yesterday,
And foamy daisies nodded in disdain

At July sun and rain.

With thy approach the year seems waxing late,
And yet its ripest fullness is not come;

Far off we scarce can hear the "Harvest Home,"
The apple-pickers loiter at the gate,

Well-pleased with maids to wait.

When I the sunshine of thy bloom behold,
And pluck and bear thee home with fond caress,

I am the richer for thy lavishness.

Thy Midas touch hath turned the land to gold
For me to have and hold.

- Abbie Frances Judd.

AUGUST.

HE yellow goldenrod is dressed

THE

In gala-day attire;

The glowing redweed by the fence
Shines like a crimson fire;

And from the hot field's farthest edge

The cricket's soft refrain

With mellow accent tells the tale
That August's here again.

In shining blue the aster wild
Unfolds her petals fair;
The clematis, upreaching, seeks
To clasp and kiss the air;
The brilliant poppy flaunts her head
Amidst the ripening grain,

And adds her voice to swell the song
That August's here again.

The dusty thistle by the road
Scatters a silvery spray;

The sun pours down his scorching beams
Upon the fainting day;

The blackberry vine bends with its weight

Of fruit down in the lane, And adds its testimony, too, That August's here again.

The wild hop, from the young elm's bough,
Sways on the languid breeze,

And here and there the autumn tints
Gleam faintly through the trees.
All Nature helps to swell the song
And chant the same refrain;
July and June have slipped away
And August's here again.

- Helen Maria Winslow.

IN SUMMER-TIME.

GOLDEN glory lies along the hills,

A few light cirri float across the blue
Of the far sky. In leafy coverts, thrills
Of bird songs waken, but the notes are few.
The bees hum lazily, though flowers are sweet,
And ripened fruits blush with a tinge of red,
And drowsily the cattle move and eat,
With eager, buzzing flies about each head;
And the hot sun is now in its full prime,
For it is summer-time.

Silently through the meadows flows the stream,
Flashing but murmurless; not as in spring,
When rich in music it sent out a gleam

Of silver, where 'mong rocks, its eddying ring
Made mimic whirlpools. Slowly waves the corn,
And slowly swing the scythes along the field,
Where weary workers wait the dinner hour,
That noontide rest to tired arms will yield;
And low the locust sings his droning chime,
In the ripe summer-time.

High overhead the bright sun holds his way;
His lucent rays glow in the mellow peach,
The apples catch his fire at close of day;

Pears, berries, flowers, he gives rich strength to each;
And though so hot he is, his fiery beams
Make the grapes purple grow along the wall.
In ripened yellow now the grain field gleams,
And swallows sharply to each other call:

And weirdly sounds the whippoorwill's wild rhyme,
These nights of summer-time.

ONE DAY.

They wave, like banners hasting in retreat Before the whelming fury of the foe.

Now here, now there, one sinks to rise no more;
The lance-like grain bows over them, and then
High overhead the noiseless swallows soar
In graceful curves, and drop to earth again.

A brook that chants in ceaseless monotone
Flows through the field, a limpid streak of brown;
White foam-flakes capping it are lightly blown
Along the surface as it hurries down.

Small summer insects chirp amid the blades
That rattle with a sharp metallic sound,
And clover, like a group of modest maids,
Empurples yonder patch of meadow-ground.

Once, starting from his thicket in the grass,
A lark flies forward, singing as he goes;
Soft clouds make shifting shadows as they pass;
The woodland echoes to the cry of crows.

And over all there comes a sudden stir;
The gentle summer secrets float away;
It is the wind, fleet autumn's courier,
Sending a shudder through the peaceful day.
-James Berry Bensel.

THE SUN-FLOWER.

EAGLE of flowers! I see thee stand,

And on the sun's noon-glory gaze;

With eye like his, thy lids expand,
And fringe their disk with golden rays;
Though fix'd on earth, in darkness rooted there,
Light is thine element, thy dwelling air,
Thy prospect heaven.

So would mine eagle-soul descry,

Beyond the path where planets run,

The light of immortality,

The splendor of creation's sun;

Though sprung from earth, and hastening to the tomb,

In hope a flower of paradise to bloom,

I look to heaven.

-James Montgomery.

I

TIGER-LILIES.

LIKE not lady-slippers,

Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,

Nor yet the flaky roses,
Red, or white as snow;
I like the chaliced lilies,
The heavy Eastern lilies,
The gorgeous tiger-lilies,
That in our garden grow!

For they are tall and slender;

Their mouths are dashed with carmine,

And when the wind sweeps by them,