The youth's coronal :: :: University of Virginia Library

A SUMMER MORNING RAMBLE.

Oh! the happy Summer hours,
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;—
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!

All the East was rosy red,
When we woke and left our bed;
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silken net
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.

With their modest eyes of blue
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses, where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.

On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,—
Up and down the rugged bent,—
Through the wicket,—
Where the rock with water drops,—
Through the bushes and the copse,—
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.

We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,

As along his back 't was thrown,
Like a glory of his own,
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.

All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,—
Oh! it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.

Dear little brother Will!
He has leaped the hedge and rill,—
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired, and dropped asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.

See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
Wit his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.

He is dreaming of his play—
How he rose at break of day,
And he frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.

In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip
Seems as aiming

At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.

While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.

'Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every day increase
Of a treasure.