JUNE.

The violet peeps from its emerald bed, And rivals the azure in hue overhead; To the breeze, sweeping by on invisible wings, Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings, And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heard Sweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.

The swallow is dipping his wing in the tide, And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied; Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine, And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine; Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray— Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.

Oft forsaking the haunts and the dwellings of men, I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen; And the presence of June, making vocal each bough, Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow: The rustling of leaves, the blithe hum of the bee, Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.

When the rose bends with dew on her emerald throne, And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown; When the musical thrush is asleep on its nest, And the red-bird is in her light hammock at rest; When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill, Is heard thy sad anthem, oh sad whip-poor-will!

The Indian, as twilight was fading away, Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay, And deeming thy note the precursor of wo, Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe; But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight, While the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!

Brightest month of the year! when thy chaplet grows pale, I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale: The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair, In clearness can ne'er with thy waters compare; Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vie With the tint of thy rose, or the hue of thy sky!