A DAY IN EARLY SUMMER.

A little wood, wherein with silver sound A brooklet whispers all the sunny day, And on its banks all flow’rets which abound In the bright circle of the charmèd May: Primroses, whose faint fragrance you may know From other blooms; and oxlips, whose sweet breath Is kissed by windflowers—star-like gems which blow Beside pale sorrel, in whose veins is death; Larch-trees are there, with plumes of palest green; And cherry, dropping leaves of scented white; While happy birds, amid the verdant screen, Warble their songs of innocent delight. Surely they err who say life is not blest; Hither may come the weary and have rest. J. C. H.