| 7. fw. f><~tZc f ■ ft H fe/ //V jffUiS, 3 '- J J// /LiXyyi t » « ' « i X 'owL THE GARLAND OF THE YEAR; OR, (ETie fKantfjs: tfjetr SPaetrg anti iFIciners. WITH TWELVE CHROMOGRAPHS OF FLOWERS, ONE FOR EACH MONTH. “ Blessed be God for flowers ; For the bright, gentle, holy thoughts, that breathe From out their odorous beauty, like a wreath Of sunshine on Life’s hours.” Mrs. Tinsley. Honban: MARCUS WARD & CO., CHANDOS ST., W.C .; And ROYAL ULSTER WORKS, BELFAST. Mhk] ^olU 1 ( O \r& G&*c 1 X-EYE DAISY @n tfjc fragrant meatr. among tfie neSjj^mofon fjag, ®Se see tfje baisies tall ©fiat bloometi but gestertiag, $abj taut!)’ring foitfi ttje grass ©fieri transient .glorg gone, 3nb in tfieir lesson see ©fie fate of ebergone. JUNE. -- 'Tis June, ’tis merry, smiling June, ’Tis blushing Summer now ; The rose is red, the bloom is dead, The fruit is on the bough. Eliza Cook. tft UNE > sweet June ! month of roses and lovely flowers ! Adieu to Spring—welcome Summer ! Adieu to the modest snow-drops, primroses, and violets ! Adieu to the pale green leaflets of Spring ! They are gone—gone to be speedily replaced by the more brilliant flowers and leaves of Summer, now in full glory. The forest trees put forth their blossoms. The earth is carpeted with flowers, and the air is filled with their perfume. The flower-garden is now in its splendour : roses of all tints, from deepest crimson to palest pink, and from brightest yellow to palest white ; besides stocks, geraniums, lilies, speedwells, jasmines, 50 June. rockets, poppies, pinks, lupines, mignionette, and hundreds of others. In the fields and country lanes, we are delighted with the sight and perfume of the field-peas and beans, the red and white clover, the young corn, bursting into ear, the delicate wild rose, with flowers of varying tints, the luscious honeysuckle, the snowy-flowered elder, the foxglove, the meadow¬ sweet, and the exquisite feathery grasses of the field, which rival the beauty of the plumes of the ostrich. It is supposed by some that June took its name from Juno, the wife of Jupiter, “king of gods and men.” Others say it is derived & junioribus , from young per¬ sons, who always claim this month as their own. The ancient Romans considered that June was the most propitious season of the year for contracting matrimo¬ nial engagements, and, particularly so, at the full of the moon, and that the month of May was especially to be avoided. The out-door labours in the field are specially pleas¬ ant now. The happy haymakers in the meadow appear as if their work was only pleasure. June is sometimes showery ; but sunshine quickly comes, and then we have, in all its splendour, the rainbow—“triumphal arch, which fill’st the sky when storms prepare to part.” But sunshine and showers alternating only enhance the beauty of the season, which may be considered one of the most enjoyable times of the year. FIELD FLOWERS. Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, ’tis true ; Yet, wildings of Nature, I doat upon you ; For ye waft me to Summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildlings of June ; Of ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affection the violet awakes ; What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore ; What landscapes I read in the primrose’s looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore ! 5 2 June. Earth’s cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, Had scathed my existence’s bloom ; Once I welcomed you more in Life’s passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. Campbell. JUNE. Now comes the rosy June ! and blue-eyed hours, With song of birds and stir of leaves and wings, And run of rills, and bubble of bright springs, And hourly burst of pretty buds to flowers ; With buzz of happy bees in violet bowers, And gushing lay of the loud lark, who sings High in the silent air, and sleeks his wings In frequent sheddings of the flying showers ; With plunge of struggling sheep in plashy floods, And timid bleat of shorn and shivering lamb, Answer’d in far-off faintness by its dam ; With cuckoo’s call from green depths of old woods, And hum of many sounds, making one voice That sweetens the smooth air with a melodious noise. Waller. June. 53 THE DAISY. Trampled underfoot, The daisy lives, and strikes its little root Into the lap of Time ; centuries may come, And pass away into the silent tomb, And still the child, hid in the womb of Time, Shall smile and pluck them ! When this simple rhyme Shall be forgotten, like a church-yard stone, Or lingering lie, unnoticed and alone ; When eighteen hundred years, our common date, Grow many thousands in their marching state, Ay, still the child, with pleasure in his eye, Shall cry, “The daisy ! ”—a familiar cry— And run to pluck it in the self-same state ; And, like a child himself, when all was new, Might smile with wonder, and take notice too ! Its little golden bosom, filled with snow, Might win e’en Eve to stoop adown and shew Her partner, Adam, in the silken grass, The little gem, that smiled where pleasure was, And, loving Eve, from Eden followed ill, And bloomed with sorrow, and lives smiling still; As once in Eden, under Heaven’s breath, So now on Earth, and on the lap of death, It smiles for ever. Clare. 54 June. SONNET. Written at the Close of Spring. The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove ; Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew, Anemones, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell, mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colours fade away ! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring : Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? Charlotte Smith. THE MOSS ROSE. The Angel of the flowers, one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay ; That spirit to whose charge 'tis given To bathe young buds in dews of Heaven. Awaking from his light repose, The angel whispered to the rose : June. 55 “ O, fondest object of my care, Still fairest found where all are fair, For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me, Ask what thou wilt—'tis granted thee.” “ Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow, “ On me another grace bestow ! ” The spirit paused in silent thought,— What grace was there that flower had not ? ’T was but a moment ; o’er the rose A veil of moss the angel throws ; And, robed in Nature's simplest weed, Could there a flower that rose exceed ? TO A DAISY. Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! A pilgrim bold, in Nature’s care, And oft, the long year through, the heir Of joy or sorrow ; Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest thorough ! And wherefore ? Man is soon depressed ; A thoughtless thing who, once unblest, Does little on his memory rest, Or on his reason ; 5 6 June. But thou wouldst teach him how to find A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind, And every season. Wordsworth. THE ROSE. (from camoens.) Just like Love is yonder rose :— Heavenly fragrance round it throws, Yet tears its dewy leaves disclose, And, in the midst of briars it blows,— Just like Love ! Culled to bloom upon the breast, Since rough thorns the stem invest, They must be gathered with the rest, And with it to the heart be prest,— Just like Love ! And when rude hands the twin-buds sever. They die, and they shall blossom never ; Yet the thorns be sharp as ever ;— Just like Love ! Anon. tt tt)C Iiffa of Summer morn, — "9 k 4f)g barteb blossoms born am to meet tije Sun’s first ran Soon, too soon, to pass atoag. Hook upon them, for ttjeg sag “Do grntr butg tofjtle gou mag, est gou bie, gour toorfe unbone anb mag see no morrofa’s sun. \ JULY. ’Tis Summer — joyous Summer-time ! In noisy towns no more abide ; The earth is full of radiant things, Of gleaming flowers and glancing wings— Beauty and joy on every side. Mary Howitt. WEET Summer has now attained her perfection. I ’Tis burning July, month of heat and sunshine, of azure skies and dusty roads, of ripened hay and ripening corn. The fields are nigh white for har¬ vest. The glowing landscape shows a picture of bright¬ ness and warmth. At noon-time we gladly seek the pleasant shade of the trees, so richly clothed with bright foliage. We sigh for the cooling breeze, or freshening shower of rain. In the flower-garden the show on the beds is gorgeous ; the lilies “ shine in glory as a king;” yet the perfume of the roses and other flowers is fairly rivalled in the fields by the 5 8 July. fragrance of the new-mown hay. The busy haymakers are at work, piling it into hay-cocks, or carrying it homewards to the stack-yard. In the city, residence is almost unendurable, and all who can leave now gladly seek the fresh, cool air of the country, or the breeze at the seaside. The ancient Romans called this month Quintilis. It was the fifth month of the Roman year, and had originally thirty-six days. It was the natal month of Julius Caesar, who, in reforming the Calendar, allotted to it thirty-one days. It was named July by Mark Antony, in compliment to him. Our Saxon forefathers termed it Hey-monat , because they then made their hay harvest; and also Maed-monat , from the meads being then in full bloom. The wild flowers of Spring have entirely disappeared. Climbing plants festoon the hedges. The wild hop, the bryony, the large white convolvulus, and others, deck the bushes with varied beauty, and breathe the Sum¬ mer’s sweetness. In the fields, the scarlet poppy, the blue-bottle, the marigold, and the dog-daisy, may be seen in abundance. On the roadsides and ditches, among beautiful ferns, may be seen the tall foxglove, the musk-thistle, the wild thyme, and hosts of others, which brighten the way of the weary foot passenger along the dusty road. JULY. Loud is the Summer’s busy song, The smallest breeze can find a tongue ; While insects of each tiny size Grow teasing with their melodies, Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day lies still as death. The busy noise of man and brute Is, on a sudden, lost and mute ; Even the brook, that leaps along, Seems weary of its bubbling song, And, so soft its waters creep, Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep. The cricket on its bank is dumb, The very flies forget to hum ; And, save the waggon rocking round, The landscape sleeps without a sound ; The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that danceth now ; The taller grass upon the hill And spiders’ threads are standing still; 6o July. The feathers, dropped from moor-hen’s wing, Which to the water's surface cling, Are steadfast, and as heavy seem As stones beneath them in the stream ; Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs Unruffled keep their seedy crowns ; And in the over-heated air Not one light thing is floating there, Save that, to the earnest eye, The restless heat seems twittering by. Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, And flowers e'en within the shade, Until the sun slopes in the West. Like weary traveller, glad to rest On pillowed clouds of many hues, Then Nature's voice its joy renews ; And checkered field and grassy plain Hum, with their Summer-songs again, A requiem to the day's decline, Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine, As welcome to day's feeble powers As falling dews to thirsty flowers. John Clare. July. 61 SUMMER MORN. With quickened step Brown night retires ; young day pours in apace, And opens all the lawny prospect wide. The dripping rock, the mountain’s misty top Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine, And from the bladed field the fearful hare Limps awkward ; while, along the forest glade, The wild deer trip, and, often turning, gaze At early passenger. Music awakes The native voice of undissembled joy ; And, thick around the woodland, hymns arise. Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; And from the crowded fold, in order, drives His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. Javies Thomson. SUMMER EVE. Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees, Just o’er the verge of day. The shifting clouds Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train, In all their pomp attend his setting throne. Air, earth, and ocean smile immense, and now, 6 2 July. As if his weary chariot sought the bowers Of Amphitrite and her tending nymphs (So Grecian fable sung), he dips his orb, Now half immersed, and now a golden curve, Gives one bright glance, then total disappears. Confessed, from yonder slow-extinguished clouds, All ether softening, sober evening takes Her wonted station in the middle air, A thousand shadows at her beck. James Thomson. THE LILY AND THE ROSE. The Nymph must lose her female friend If more admired than she ;— But where will fierce contention end If flowers can disagree ? Within the garden’s peaceful scene Appeared two lovely foes, Aspiriftg to the rank of queen, The Lily and the Rose. The Rose soon reddened into rage, And, swelling with disdain, Appealed to many a poet's page To prove her right to reign. The Lily’s height bespoke command— A fair imperial flower ; July. 63 She seemed designed for Flora’s hand, The sceptre of her power. This civil bickering and debate The goddess chanced to hear, And flew to save, ere yet too late, The pride of the parterre. “Yours is,” she said, “the nobler hue, And yours the statelier mien, And, till a third surpasses you, Let each be deemed a queen ! ” Thus soothed and reconciled, ea>ch seeks The fairest British fair ; The seat of empire is her cheeks, They reign united there. Cowper. THE LILY. There is a pale and modest flower, In garb of green array'd, That decks the rustic maiden’s bower, And blossoms in the glade ; Though other flowers around me bloom, In gaudy splendour drest, Filling the air with rich perfume, I love the lily best. 64 July. I see the tulip’s gorgeous hue, And sun-flower’s crown of gold ; I see the rose, and woodbine too, Their scented leaves unfold ; Though they adorn the gay parterre, I love them not so well As the drooping lily, frail and fair. That grows in shady dell. Anon. THE LESSON OF A ROSE. Ah ! see, whose fayre thing dost faine to see, In springing flowre the image of the day ! Ah ! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee Doth first peepe forth with bashful modestee, That fairer seems the lesse ye see her may ! Lo ! see soone after how, more bold and free, Her barfed bosome she doth broad display : Lo ! see soone after how she fades and falls away ! So passeth, in the passing of a day Of mortal life, the leafe, the bud, the flowre No more doth flourish, after first decay, That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a lady and many a paramoure ! Gather therefore the rose whilest yet is prime, For soon comes age that will her pride deflowre ; Gather the rose of love whilest yet is time, Whilest loveing thou mayest loved be with equall crime. Spenser. OPPIES^VHEAT ffiolten tohcat ant) popptes-ret ©roto together, site bg site jFruitful corn, toittj trooping heat, rtlliant poppies open tot'ae. pot tpe brightest, not the proutest re of greatest serbtee here, But tpe bototng heats of harbest, hattoithplentg croton thegear. AUGUST. See now at work the reaper bands, With lightsome heart and eager hands, And mirth and music cheer the toil ; While sheaves that stud the russet soil, And sickles gleaming in the sun, Tell jocund Autumn is begun. Pringle. § OLDEN Autumn now is come. ’Tis glorious August, time of harvest ! The year has now reached its fullest maturity, like a man in prime of life, with health, wealth, and vigour. The .corn is fully ripe, and in the fields the busy reapers are hard at work from early morn till late at eve. The days are perceptibly shortening, but the sky is blue and clear ; and though the sun at noon is strong, there is a light breeze during the day ; the heat is not so oppressive as it was last month, and the evenings are delightful. August was called by the Romans Sextilis, or sixth month of their year. It had originally twenty-nine 66 August. days. Julius Caesar, in reforming the Calendar, gave it thirty days ; but, after his death, Augustus Caesar conferred on it his own name, and, taking a day from February gave August thenceforth thirty-one days. Our Anglo-Saxon forefathers called it Arn-monat , Barn Month, from the filling of barns, am signifying harvest. In addition to the wheat, oats, and barley, which are harvested this month, the hops are now gathered. In the English counties in which hops flourish, the hop¬ gardens present a picture which may well rival for landscape beauty the vineyards of Italy itself. Yet, with all this beauty, we feel that the year is declining —nearly all the lovely flowers which charmed us in Spring and Summer are gone. We notice many changes on every side. Though we may observe a sort of second spring in the young shoots from many of the trees and bushes, and may still see pretty flowers, such as the red poppy or ox-eye daisy in the fields, or woodbine in the hedges, we cannot but be reminded that the year is drawing to a close, and that ere long we shall have weary Winter back again. PRIDE AND THE POPPIES. “We little Red-caps are among the Corn, Merrily dancing at early morn ; We know that the Farmer hates to see Our saucy red faces, but here are we ! “We pay no price for our summer coats, Like those slavish creatures, Barley and Oats ; We don’t choose to be ground and eat Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat. “Who dare thrash us, we should like to know ? Grind us, and bag us, and use us so ? Let meaner and shabbier things than we So stupidly bend to utility !" So said little Red-cap, and all the rout Of the Poppy clan set up a mighty shout ; Mighty for them, but, if you had heard, You had thought it the cry of a tiny bird. So the Poppy folk flaunted it over the field ; In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled, And shook out their jackets, till nought was seen But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green. 68 August. The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk, Quietly smiling at all their talk, The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun, And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun. The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing—not she, For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity Of the proud Poppy tribe, but she flourished and grew, Content with herself and her plain purple hue. The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow, To some bringing joy, and to others e'en sorrow ; But blithe was the rich, rosy Farmer that morn, When he went with his reapers among the corn. He trotted along, and he cracked his joke, And chatted and laughed with the harvest folk ; For the weather was settled, barometer high, And heavy crops gladden'd his practised eye. “We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he, As he tied his white pony under a tree, “Next the upland wheat, and then the oats :” How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats ! Aye, shook with laughter, not fear, for they Never dreamed they too should be swept away ; And their laughter was spite, to think that all Their useful neighbours were doomed to fall. They swelled and bustled with such an air, The corn-fields quite in commotion were, August. 69 And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain, “ How these rascally weeds have come up again ! ” “Ha, ha !” laughed the Red-caps, “ Ha, ha ! what a fuss Must the poor weeds be in ! how they're envying us ! ” But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes They speedily met from the harvest folks. And when low on earth each stem was laid, And the round moon looked on the havoc made, A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect, And made a short speech—to this effect:— ‘ ‘ My dying kins-flowers and fainting friends, The same dire fate alike attends Those who in scarlet or blue are dressed ; Then how silly the pride that so late possessed ‘ ‘ Our friends, the Red-caps ! how low they lie Who were lately so pert, so vain, and high ! They sneered at us and our plain array : Are we now a whit more humble than they ? “ They scorned our neighbours ; the goodly Corn Was the butt of their merriment eve and morn ; They lived on its land, from its bounty fed, But a word of thanks they never have said. ‘ ‘ And which is the worthiest now, I pray ? Have ye not learned enough to-day ? Is not the Corn sheafed up with care? And are not the Poppies left dying there ? 70 August ‘ ‘ The Com will be carried, and garnered up To gladden man’s heart both with loaf and cup ; And some of the seed the land now yields Will be brought again to its native fields, “And grow, and ripen, and wave next year As richly as this hath ripened here ; And we poor weeds, though needed not, Perchance may spring up on this very spot. “ But let us be thankful, and humble too ; Not proud and vain of a gaudy hue ; Ever remembering, though meanly drest, That usefulness is of all gifts the best.” L. A. Twamley. HARVEST HOME. Come, sons of Summer, by whose toil We are the lords of wine and oil; By whose tought labours and rough hands We rip up first, then reap our lands. Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come, And to the pipe sing harvest home ! Come forth, my lord, and see the cart Drest up with all the country art: See, here a maukin, there a sheet, As spotless pure as it is sweet; August. 71 The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, Clad all in linen, white as lilies ; The harvest swains and wenches, bound For joy to see the hock-cart crown’d. About the cart, hear how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout, Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout, and these with laughter. Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves, Some prank them up with oaken leaves ; Some cross the fill-horse, some with great Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat ; While other rustics, less attent To prayers than to merriment, Run after, with their breeches rent 1 Well, on, brave boys, to your lord’s hearth, Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth, Ye shall see first the large and chief Foundation of your feast, fat beef ; With upper stories, mutton, veal, And bacon, which makes full the meal ; With sev’ral dishes standing by. As, here a custard, there a pie, And here all-tempting frumentie. And for to make the merry cheer, If smirking wine be wanting here, There’s that which drowns all care, stout beer; Which freely drink to your lord's health, Then to the plough, the commonwealth ; Next to your flails, your fanes, your fatts, 72 August Then to the maids with wheaten hats ; To the rough sickle and the crooked scythe, Drink, frolic, boy, till all be blythe ! Feed and grow fat, and, as ye eat, Be mindful that the lab’ring neat, As you, may have their full of meat; And know, besides, ye must revoke The patient ox unto the yoke, And all go back unto the plough And harrow, though they're hang’d up now ; And, you must know, your lord's word's true,— Feed him ye must, whose food fills you ; And that this pleasure is like rain, Not sent ye for to drown your pain, But for to make it spring again. Herrick. i- \ SEPTEMBER. Go to the silent Autumn woods ! There has gone forth a spirit stern ; Its wing has waved in triumph here, The Spring’s green, tender leaf is sere, And withering hangs the summer fern. Mary Howitt. ^^’ARVEST Home ! What joy these words i ex¬ press ! The harvest, commenced last month, is IP nearly completed. What a picturesque scene is the harvest field : the yellow corn, the reaper with his sickle, the binders tying the golden sheaves, the glean¬ ers following; old women, young maidens, and little children, in dress of every tint of colour, form a picture that delights the heart of the artist. And now kis evening. The last load of corn is on its way to the stack-yard, followed by a motley group of merry rus¬ tics. They are about to enjoy their harvest-home sup¬ per, and a merry dance by the brilliant light of the 74 September. glorious harvest moon. At no season does Cynthia shine so brightly as in harvest. Kirke White justly says :— ‘ ‘ Moon of harvest ! herald mild Of Plenty, rustic labour’s child, Hail! oh, hail! I greet thy beam, As soft it trembles o’er the stream, And gilds the straw-thatched hamlet wide, Where innocence and peace reside ! ” When the year began in March, September was the seventh month of the year—hence its name, Septem¬ ber. It is now inappropriate, as the year commences two months earlier. Our Saxon ancestors called it Gerst-monat or Barley Month, from gerst, barley. The decline of the year has now commenced. , The leaves of the trees are donning their golden and tawny tints. The orchard trees are laden with pears, plums, and apples. The hedgerows are brightened with the scarlet berries of hips, haws, and honeysuckles ; as well as with the bright fruit of the privet, the thorn, the elder, and the blackberry. The harvest is over, and we cannot but feel thankful to the Giver of all good things for it, and for the many bounties which we now so freely enjoy. THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake ! So put thou forth thy small white rose, I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou needest not be ashamed to show Thy satin-threaded flowers ; For dull the eye, the heart as dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty, beautiful Thy tender blossoms are ! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem ! How soft thy voice when woods are still, And thou sing’st hymns to them. While silent showers are falling slow, And, ’mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Love whispering through the bush ! 7 6 September. The primrose to the grave is gone ; The hawthorn flower is dead ; The violet by the mossed grey stone Hath laid her weary head ; But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power, The fresh, green days of life’s fair Spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more Thou bidd’st me be a boy, To gad with thee the woodlands o’er, In freedom and in joy. Ebcnezer Elliott. HARVEST HOME. Here once a-year Distinction lowers her crest; The master, servant, and the merry guest Are equal, all ; and, round the happy ring, The reaper’s eyes exulting glances fling ; And, warmed with gratitude, he quits his place, With sunburnt hands and ale-enliven’d face, Re-fills the jug, his honoured host to tend, To serve at once the master and the friend ; Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, His nuts, his conversation, and his ale. Bloomfield. Septe 7 nber. 7 7 THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY FAIR. “ FORGET-ME-NOT.” Together they sate by a river’s side, A knight and a lady gay, And they watched the deep and eddying tide Round a flowery islet stray. And, “ Oh for that flower of brilliant hue,” Then said the lady fair, “To grace my neck with the blossoms blue, And braid my nut-brown hair ! ” The knight has plunged in the whirling wave, All for his lady’s smile, And he swims the stream with courage brave, And he gains yon flowery isle ; And his fingers have cropped the blossoms blue, And the prize they backward bear, To deck his love with the brilliant hue, And braid her nut-brown hair. But the way is long, and the current strong, And alas for that gallant knight ! For the waves prevail, and his stout arms fail, Though cheered by his lady’s sight. Then the blossoms blue to the bank he threw Ere he sank in the eddying tide ! And, “Lady, I’m gone,—thine own true knight,— Forget me not ! ” he cried. September. This farewell pledge the lady caught, And hence, as legends say, The flower is a sign to awaken thought For friends who are far away ; For the lady fair of her knight so true Still remembered the hapless lot, And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue, And she braided her hair with the blossoms blue, And then called it “ Forget-me-not ! ” Bishop Mant. MORNING IN AUTUMN. It was a fair and mild Autumnal sky, And earth’s ripe treasures met the admiring eye, As a rich beauty, when her bloom is lost, Appears with more magnificence and cost. Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief, Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf ; The dew dwelt ever on the herb ; the woods Roared with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods : All green was vanished, save of pine and yew, That still displayed their melancholy hue ; Save the green holly, with its berries red, And the green moss that o’er the gravel spread. Crahbe. September. 79 WILD FLOWERS. Beautiful flowers of the woods and fields, That bloom by mountain streamlets, 'mid the heather, Or into clusters 'neath the hazels gather, Or, where by hoary rocks you make your bields, And sweetly flourish on through summer weather,— I love ye all! Beautiful flowers ! to me ye fresher seem From the Almighty Hand, that fashioned all, Than those that flourish by a garden wall; And I can image you as in a dream, Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small— I love ye all! Beautiful gems, that on the brow of earth Are fixed as in a queenly diadem ! Though lowly ye, and most without a name, Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth, As light erewhile into the world came— I love ye all! Beautiful things ye are, where’er ye grow !— The wild red rose, the speedwell's peeping eyes, Our own bluebell, the daisy, that doth rise Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow, And thousands more of blessed forms and dyes— I love ye all! 8 o September. Beautiful nurslings of the early dew ! Fanned in your loveliness by every breeze, And shaded o’er by green and arching trees, I often wish that I were one of you, Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas— I love ye all! Beautiful watchers, day and night ye wake ! The evening star grows dim and fades away, And morning comes and goes, and then the day Within the arms of night its rest doth take, But ye are watchful wheresoe’er we stray— I love ye all! Beautiful objects of the wild bee’s love, The wild bird joys your opening bloom to see, And in your native woods and wilds to be ! All hearts to Nature true ye strangely move, Ye are so passing fair—so passing free— I love ye all! Beautiful children of the glen and dell, The dingle deep, the moorland stretching wide, And of the mossy fountain’s sedgy side, Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell; And though the worldling, scorning, may deride— I love ye all! R. Nicol. — HCJ — ILDKOSE m OCTOBER ©JErjeit trie ctjtll ©rtober tomb ©ft is satiljj ssigfjing, ©It fieri tfje leabes in circlets fig, ail seems beab or bging. ©Hilt) .ose.tijen tfjgrubbg leabes Sftb scarlet berries sljining. © tfaebrigfjt gloto to barefjebgeroto anb tlje gear beclining. \ OCTOBER. -*<>♦- Autumn’s sighing, Moaning, dying, Clouds are flying On like steeds ; While their shadows O'er the meadows Walk like widows Decked in weeds. Red leaves trailing Fall unfailing— Dropping, sailing From the wood, That, unpliant, Stands defiant, Like a giant Dropping blood. T. B. Read. golden October. “The harvest is past, the Summer is ended.” The lovely flowers of Spring and Summer are gone. The fruit trees have yielded up their fruit; but the forest trees are now in their riches of golden glory, and the foliage is indeed lovely. The noble oak, the horse-chestnut, the elm, the beech, the ash, the lime, and the poplar, vie with each other in the brilliancy and beauty of their autumnal tints. The graceful firs and hardy ever- October. 82 greens still retain the summer shades of green. ’Tis evening. A sudden breeze springs up. It gradually increases in intensity towards night-fall, when it blows a full gale. The wind whistles among the trees, and the boughs are rudely shaken. The fallen leaves are caught up and whirled in eddying circles on the dry ground. At last the wind abates, and then comes a heavy fall of rain. The trees, in one night, are robbed of nearly all their golden tints, and thus announce the speedy return of Winter. October was the eighth month of the ancient Roman Calendar-—hence its name. Our Saxon ancestors styled it Wyn-monat, or Wein-monat, i.e., Wine Month. The ancient Germans called it Winter-fylletli, from the ap¬ proach of Winter with the full moon of the month. Although, owing to the decay of nature, we cannot but have a sort of melancholy feeling about this month, nevertheless, we have occasionally in it some of the finest and most bracing weather of the year. There is often frost in the morning and evening, and warm sun¬ shine in mid-day, accompanied by an exhilarating breeze ; and it is considered the very best time of the year to enjoy “a sniff of the briny” at the sea-side. AUTUMN—A DIRGE. The warm sun is failing, The bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, The pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth, her death-bed, In shroud of leaves, dead Is lying. Come, Months, come away, From November to May ; In your saddest array Follow the bier Of the dead, cold Year, And, like dim shadows, watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, The night-worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, The thunder is knelling For the Year; The blithe swallows are flown, And the lizards, each gone To his dwelling. October. 84 Come, Months, come away, Put on white, black, and grey ; Let your light sisters play, Ye follow the bier Of the dead, cold Year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. Shelley. AUTUMNAL SONNET. Now Autumn’s fire burns slowly along the woods., And, day by day, the dead leaves fall and melt, And, night by night, the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O’er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt. Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise The soft, invisible dew on each one’s eyes, It may be somewhat thus we shall have leave To walk with memory, When distant lies Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. W. Allingham. October. 85 AUTUMN. The Autumn is old ; The sere leaves are flying ; He hath gathered up gold, And now he is dying : Old age, begin sighing ! The vintage is ripe, The harvest is heaping ; But some that have sowed Have no riches for reaping : Poor wretch, fall a-weeping ! The year's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning ; Cold Winter gives warning. The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking : Here’s enow for sad thinking ! Hood. October. 86 TO MEADOWS. Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. Ye have beheld where they With wicker arks did come To kiss, and bear away The richer cowslips home. You’ve heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round ; Each virgin, like the Spring, With honeysuckles crowned ; But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And, with dishevelled hair, Adorned this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, You’re left here to lament Your poor estates alone. Herrick. October. 87 AUTUMN FLOWERS. Those few pale Autumn flowers, How beautiful they are ! Than all that went before, Than all the summer store, How lovelier far! And why ? They are the last ! The last ! the last ! the last ! Oh ! by that little word How many thoughts are stirred That whisper of the past! Pale flowers ! pale, perishing flowers ! Ye’re types of precious things ; Types of those better moments, That flit, like life's enjoyments, On rapid, rapid wings ! Last hours with parting dear ones (That time the fastest spends), Last tears in silence shed, Last words half-uttered, Last looks of dying friends. Who but would fain compress A life into a day ?— The last day spent with one Who, ere the morrow's sun, Must leave us, and for aye ? 88 October. O precious, precious moments ! Pale flowers, ye’re types of those ! The saddest, sweetest, dearest, Because, like those, the nearest To an eternal close. Pale flowers ! pale, perishing flowers ! I woo your gentle breath ; I leave the summer rose For younger, blither brows ;— Tell me of change and death ! _ Caroline Southey. WITHERING-WITHERING. Withering — withering — all are withering— All of Hope’s flowers that youth hath nursed, — Flowers of Love too early blossoming, Buds of Ambition too frail to burst! Faintly—faintly—O ! how faintly I feel life's pulses ebb and flow ; Yet, Sorrow, I know thou dealest daintily With one who should not wish to live moe. Nay ! why, young heart, thus timidly shrinking ? Why doth thy upward wing thus tire ? Why are thy pinions so droopingly sinking, When they should only waft thee higher ? Upward—upward let them be waving, Lifting the soul toward her place of birth ; There are guerdons there more worthy thy having, Far more than any these lures of the earth.— Hoffman. NOVEMBER. The drooping year is in the wane, No longer floats the thistle-down ; The crimson heath is wan and sere, The sedge hangs withering by the mere, And the broad fern is rent and brown. Mary Howitt. «f OVEMBER, — pioneer of Winter, month of fog and rain, of dirty days and dark nights, — is one of the most unwholesome and uncomfortable months of the year. The sun rarely shows his bright face. The rivers are full to overflowing, and the hedges and trees are nearly all quite bare. Yet, in the country, the observer of nature may notice many things which throw beauty and brightness over the scene. If the richly-coloured foliage of the trees is gone, we have many bright berries in the hedges, which are now in full perfection : the blackberry, the haw, the hip, the sloe, the cranberry, and the dark November. 90 fruit of the privet and the ivy. On the ditch sides we may see many graceful ferns, which make a pleasant show of bright green. November was the ninth month of the Roman year —hence its name. The Saxons styled it Wint-monat, or Wind Month, from the gales of wind prevalent at this season. If November weather be disagreeable in the coun¬ try, it is still more so in town, particularly in London, where the thick, yellow fog is sometimes so dense as to turn noon into night, and impede all business and traffic through the streets. This cannot be better des¬ cribed than in the words of the famous wit and poet, Thomas Hood :— No sun—no moon—no morn—no noon— No dawn—no dusk — no proper time of day— No sky—no earthly view— No distance looking blue — No road—no street — no “t’other side the way ”— No end to any row— No indications where the crescents go — No top to any steeple — No recognitions of familiar people— No warmth—-no cheerfulness — no healthful ease— No comfortable feel in any member— No shade—no shine — no butterflies—no bees— No fruits — no flowers—no leaves—no birds— November. NOVEMBER. The mellow year is hasting to its close, The little birds have almost sung their last ; Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows. The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs, a pale mourner for the Summer past, And makes a little Summer where it grows. In the chill sunbeam of the faint, brief day, The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define ; And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. Hartley Coleridge. -oafS-Bc©- 92 November. THE WINDY NIGHT. Alow and aloof Over the roof How the midnight tempests howl! With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune Of wolves that bay at the desert moon ; Or whistle and shriek Through limbs that creak. “Tu-who ! Tu-whit ! ” They cry and flit, “ Tu-who ! Tu-whit ! ” like the solemn owl! Alow and aloof Over the roof Sweep the moaning winds amain, And wildly dash The elm and ash Clattering on the window-sash, With a clatter and patter, Like hail and rain, That well-nigh shatter The dusky pane ! Alow and aloof Over the roof How the tempests swell and roar ! Though no foot is astir, Though the cat and the cur November. Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, There are feet of air On every stair, Through every hall! Through each gusty door There’s a jostle and bustle, With a silken rustle, Like the meeting of guests at a festival. Alow and aloof Over the roof How the stormy tempests swell! And make the vane On the spire complain : They heave at the steeple with might and main, And burst and sweep Into the belfry on the bell! They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell! T. B. Read. WINTER SONG. Summer joys are o’er ; Flowerets bloom no more ; Wintry winds are sweeping ; Through the snow-drifts, peeping, Cheerful evergreen Rarely now is seen. 94 November. Now no plumed throng Charms the wood with song ; Ice-bound trees are glittering ; Merry snow-birds, twittering, Fondly strive to cheer Scenes so cold and drear. Winter, still I see Many charms in thee ! Love thy chilly greeting, Snow-storms fiercely beating, And the dear delights Of the long, long nights. Ludwig Holty. WINTER. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick, the shepherd, blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail; When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, “Tu-whit ! “Tu-who ! ” a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw ; November. 95 When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, “ Tu-whit ! “ Tu-who ! ” a merry note, While greasy J oan doth keel the pot. ****** Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly ; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho, the holly ! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember’d not. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly ; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho, the holly ! This life is most jolly. Shakespeare. g6 November. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. How happily, how happily the flowers die away ! Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom, Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb ! The gay and glorious creatures ! they neither “ toil nor spin Yet, lo ! what goodly raiment they’re all apparelled in ! No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems, more bright Than ever brow of Eastern queen endiademed with light. The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never pall, Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all!— The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy, blessed dir, Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share. The happy, careless creatures ! of Time they take no heed, Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away ; Nor, when ’tis gone, cry dolefully, “ Would, God, that it were day ! ” And, when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, Unconscious of the penal doom on holy Nature’s breast. No pain have they in dying, no shrinking from decay— Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! C. Bowles. olly: DECEMBER 2Tree of the cbergtccn leaf, UZr ee of the rubbg terra, © f all the trees the chief, vat ©hnstmasdime so merrjj! 3® ttf) tljce ant) fEtstletoe e all then trcck our homes: $)oto bright ths fternts gloto - OThen merra(Christurns comes ®Htth 33ox=trcc ant) faith geto, raithUfag anb green 15 ns, 5® e gibe tljee faclcome true n hf»PPB © hrisstmas Oan ! \ DECEMBER. O Winter ! ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a bea^d, made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way. From “ The Task.” — Cowper. *§|ARK December is here now—month of the short- est day and the longest night, of rain and wind, of snow and ice. It is the month of our great Christian festival, happy Christmas, the time of family re-unions, of joyous greetings, and of welcome presents. December is sometimes wet and windy ; but more often, particularly in the latter part of the month, it is frosty and snowy. What is more delightful than a smart walk on a frosty December day ? The spotless 98 December. snow is on the ground, a thick sheet of ice is on the ponds and lakes, and the trees are laden with snowy crystals. In-doors the enjoyment is even greater. What a scene at Christmas-tide, “Which now is returned, when we shall have, in brief, Plum pudding, goose, turkey, minced pies, and roast beef;” with the Christmas games, the kisses under the mistle¬ toe, and the merry dance, finishing the evening with the ever-welcome “ Sir Roger de Coverley.” December, like the preceding three months, derives its name from the place which it held in the ancient Roman Calendar—the tenth month in the year. The Saxons termed it Winter-monat, or Winter Month ; but, after their conversion to Christianity, they named it Heligh-monat , or Holy Month, in allusion to the birth of our Saviour. There is now little vegetation going on, except in conservatories, under glass. We have, nevertheless, the “ Christmas-rose,” or black hellebore (a beautiful flower), the yellow jasmine, and others, in full perfec¬ tion. The winter-flowering larustinus is in bloom, and we have the holly, with its fruit of coral, and the sacred mistletoe, with its berries of pearl, which glow so brightly in the Christmas decorations in our homes and our churches. THE HOLLY TREE. O reader ! hast thou ever stood to see The holly tree ? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves, Ordered by an Intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries. Below a circling fence its leaves are seen, Wrinkled and keen ; No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound ; But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. I love to view these things with curious eyes, And moralize ; And in this wisdom of the holly tree Can emblems see Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme ; One which may profit in the after-time. December. ioo Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear Harsh and austere ; To those who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude ; Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be, Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show, All vain asperities I, day by day, Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The holly leaves their fadeless hues display, Less bright than they ; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the holly tree ? So, serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng ; So would I seem, among the young and gay, More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly tree. Robert Southey. — f JC J- December. io r THE SNOW STORM. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight. The whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet Delayed ; all friends shut out, the house-mates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come, see the North-wind’s masonry ! Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Covers his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door ; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage ; nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work— The frolic architecture of the snow. Emerson. December. 102 CHRISTMAS. Merrily, cheerily, ring out the chimes ! Christmas-tide is the most blessed of times ! Once more returned to us, Christmas is come, Bringing sweet joy and peace to every home. Christmas reminds us all of the glad morn, When, as had been foretold, Jesus was born ; Angels from hosts above herald His birth, “Glory to God on high, peace be on earth." He, from the vale of death, man came to save, And gain the victory over the grave ! Great was the victory, great is our joy,— Jesus, the Conqueror, sin shall destroy. In that great victory let us rejoice, Gladly sing praise to God with heart and voice ; And for His gifts to us, mercy, and love, Join in the praises of angels above ! Let there be everywhere innocent mirth, Hang up bright evergreens over each hearth ! Ring out a merry peal, ring it out clear, King of the Winter days, Christmas, is here ! The Editor. December. 103 THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY. The rose it is the love of June, The violet that of Spring, But all those faithless fading flowers, That take the South-wind’s wing, As craven blooms I hold in scorn, The holly’s the wreath for a Christmas morn ! Its berries are red as a maiden's lip, Its leaves are of changeless green, And anything changeless now, I wiss, Is somewhat rare to be seen !— The holly which fall and frost has borne, The holly’s the wreath for a Christmas mom ! Its edges are set in keen array ; They are fairy weapons, bared ; And, in an unlucky world like ours, ’Tis well to be prepared. Like helm on crest of warrior borne, The holly's the wreath for a Christmas mom ! The holly it is no green-house plant, But grows in the common air ; In the peasant’s lattice, the castle hall, Its green leaves alike are there. Its lesson should in mind be borne— The holly's the wreath for a Christmas morn ! Anon. 104 December. HEW YEAR’S EVE. “ Ring out the old, ring in the new.” What joyful sounds at noon of night Burst out upon the ear ! What sudden chimes, eight notes as one, Roll out both far and near ! On wings of wind those gladsome sounds Spread over land and sea— The new year’s come, the old year’s gone, Lost in Eternity. Ring out, wild chimes, ring out again ! Thy midnight notes awake Sad memories of joy and grief, Though dear for old year’s sake ; Of happy days for ever gone, And lost friends, ever dear, Who even in their Heavenly home May greet the coming year. Ring out again with might and main ! Ring out another peal To welcome in the glad new year With joy we can't conceal ! Oh ! may it bring us every good, And banish every ill; And when at last this new year dies, May we be happy still! The Editor. * ✓ \ \