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Soft trembling as they felt the thrill
Of music echoed from the hill.

The living soul of beauty fills.

The air with glorious visions: bright They linger round the sunny hills,

And wander in the clear, blue light:
Off to the breathing heavens they go,
Along the earth they live and glow,
Shed o'er the lake their happy smiles,
And beckon to its glittering isles.

O, at this hour, when air and earth
Are gushing love, and joy, and light,
And songs of gladness, at the birth
Of all that's beautiful and bright,

Each heart beats high; each thought is blown
To flame; the spirit drinks the tone

Of brighter worlds, and melts away,
In visions of eternal day.

G.D. PRENTICE.

LESSON CCII.

AUGUST.

DUST on thy mantle! 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.

Flame-like, the long mid-day!

With not so much of sweet air as hath stirred
The down upon the spray,

Where rests the panting bird,

Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,
With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

Seeds in the sultry air,

And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees!
E'en the tall pines, that rear

Their plumes to catch the breeze,

The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west, Partake the general languor and deep rest.

Happy, as man may be,

Stretched on his back, in homely bean-vine bower, While the voluptuous bee

Robs each surrounding flower

And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast, The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest.

Against the hazy sky

The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest.
Beneath them far, yet high

In the dim, distant west,

The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare,
Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air.

Soberly, in the shade,
Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox;
Or in the shoal stream wade,

Sheltered by jutting rocks:

The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush
Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush.

Tediously pass the hours,
And vegetation wilts, with blistered root,
And droop the thirsting flowers,

Where the slant sunbeams shoot:

But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line, Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline.

Faster, along the plain,

Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge : The kine are forth again,

The bird flits in the hedge.

Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun.

Welcome, mild eve! the sultry day is done.

Pleasantly comest thou,

Dew of the evening, to the crisped-up grass;
And the curled corn-blades bow,

As the light breezes pass,

That their parched lips may feel thee, and expand,
Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land.

So, to the thirsting soul,

Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love:
And the scathed heart, made whole,
Turneth in joy above,

To where the spirit freely may expand,
And rove untrammeled in that "better land."

W. D. GALLAGHER.

LESSON CCIII.

SUMMER EVENING.

THE summer day has closed, the sun is set:
Well have they done their office, those bright hours,
The latest of whose train goes softly out

In the red west. The green blade of the ground
Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig
Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun;

Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown,
And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil

From bursting cells, and, in their graves, await
Their resurrection.

Insects from the pools

Have filled the air awhile with humming wings,
That now are still forever; painted moths
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again;

The mother-bird hath broken for her brood

Their prison-shells, or shoved them from their nest,
Plumed for their earliest flight.

In bright alcoves,

In woodland cottages with earthy walls,

In noisome cells of the tumultuous town,

Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe.

Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways

Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out,

And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends.
That ne'er before were parted: it hath knit
New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight
Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long
Hath wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which late
Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word,
That told the wedded one her peace was flown.

Farewell to the sweet sunshine! one glad day,
Is added now to childhood's merry days,
And one calm day to those of quiet age.
Still the fleet hours run on; and, as I lean
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit

By those who watch the dead, and those who twine
Flowers for the bride.

W. C. BRYANT.

LESSON CCIV.

RAIN IN SUMMER.

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,

How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters upon the roofs,

Like the tramp of hoofs !

How it gushes and struggles out

From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane,

It pours and pours;

And swift and wide,

With a muddy tide,

Like a river, down the gutter roars

The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man, from his chamber, looks

At the twisted brooks;

He can feel the cool

Breath of each little pool;

His fevered brain

Grows calm again;

And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school
Come the boys,

With more than their wonted noise

And commotion;

And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Engulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

In the country on every side,
Where, far and wide,

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,

To the dry grass and the drier grain,
How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land

The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale

The clover-scented gale,

And the vapors that arise

From the well watered and smoking soil.

For this rest in the furrow after toil,

Their large and lustrous eyes

Seem to thank the Lord,

More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,

From under the sheltering trees,

The farmer sees

His pastures and his fields of grain,

As they bend their tops

To the numberless, beating drops
Of the incessant rain.

He counts it as no sin,

That he sees therein

Only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these,

The Poet sees.

He can behold

Aquarius old

Walking the fenceless fields of air,
And from each ample fold

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