All the Day.

—Stuart Chisholm.

WHEN the earliest ray of morning
Shines aslant from the eastern sky,
Mountain-tops and hills adorning,
With a beauty that gladdens the eye.

Then, Lord of the morning-tide,
Ever with us abide
Wherever our fortune may lead us,
And nothing but good can betide.

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In September.

—Elizabeth Cole.

—Sunday Afternoon.

MORNINGS frosty grow, and cold,
Brown the grass on hill and wold;
Crows are cawing sharp and clear
When the rustling corn grows sere;
Mustering flocks of blackbirds call,
Here and there a few leaves fall,
In the meadows larks sing sweet,
Chirps the cricket at our feet,
In September.

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A Day of the Indian Summer.

—Sarah H. Whitman.

“Yet one more smile, departing distant sun
Ere o’er the frozen earth the loud winds run
And snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare.”

A DAY of golden beauty!—Through the night
The hoar-frost gathered o’er each leaf and spray
Weaving its filmy network, thin and bright
And shimmering like silver in the ray
Of the soft, sunny morning—turf and tree
Pranct in its delicate embroidery,
And every withered stump and mossy stone,
With gems encrusted and with seed-pearl sown;
While in the hedge the frosted berries glow,
The scarlet holly and the purple sloe,
And all is gorgeous, fairy-like and frail
As the famed gardens of the Arabian tale.

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The Beauties of Creation.

—John Bowring.

OURS is a lovely world! How fair
Thy beauties, even on earth, appear!
The seasons in their courses fall,
And bring successive joys: the sea,
The earth, the sky, are full of thee,
Benignant, glorious Lord of All!

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—William Channing Gannett.

I HEAR it often in the dark,
I hear it in the light,—
Where is the voice that calls to me
With such a quiet might?
It seems but echo to my thought
And yet beyond the stars;
It seems a heart-beat in a hush,
And yet the planet jars!

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—Marianne Farningham.

I THANK thee, Father, for the summer-time,
The golden days of glory and delight,—
The days when the glad year is in its prime,
Warmed by Thy love, and by Thy smile made bright.

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Song On May Morning.

—John Milton.

NOW the bright morning-star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
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September Days.

—George Arnold.

IN flickering light and shade the broad stream goes,
With cool, dark nooks and checkered, rippling shallows;
Through reedy ferns its sluggish current flows,
Where lilies grow and purple-blossomed mallows.

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The End of the Week.

—Sydney Grey.

HOW sweetly sounds the vesper chime
When weekly toil is done,
And in the tranquil even time
The Sabbath seems begun?

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—Frances Louisa Bushnell.

THE Summer floats on even wing,
Nor sails more far, nor draws more near;
Poised calm between the budding spring,
And sweet decadence of the year.

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Summer Studies.

—Harriet Beecher Stowe.

WHY shouldst thou study in the month of June
The dusty books of Greek and Hebrew lore,
When the Great Teacher of all glorious things
Passes in hourly light before thy door?

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The Watcher On The Tower.

—Charles Mackay.

Day Breaks.


WHAT dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower
Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour?
Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand,
If the bright morning dawns upon the land.

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The Nights.

—Barry Cornwall.

OH! The Summer Night,
Has a smile of light,
And she sits on a sapphire throne;
While the sweet Winds load her,
With garlands of odor,
From the bud to the rose o’er-blown!

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The Gladness Of Nature.

—William Cullen Bryant.

IS this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When all is smiling above and around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

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