94 JUNE. 



" Flower of his heart ! the fragrance mild, 

 Of peace and freedom seems to breathe ; 

 To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, 

 And deck his bonnet with the wreath, 

 Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, 

 Is all his simple wish requires, 



" Flower of his dear-lov'd, native land ! 

 Alas! when distant, far more dear ! 

 When he, from some cold foreign strand, 

 Looks homeward through the blinding tear, 

 How must his aching heart deplore, 

 That home and thee he sees no more !" 



Mrs. Grant. 



June is the jubilee of the year. Nature seems to have 

 chosen it in an especial manner as her own ; in it the 

 trees attain their full leaf; the blossoms of the fruit trees 

 have long since set, and the sun is gradually trans- 

 forming them into luscious fruit, the gardens are drest 

 in their gayest attire, the " rose of June" flaunts gaily 

 in the nicely kept parterre, the birds are fully engaged 

 in building their nests or rearing their newly fledged 

 young, while the hosts of insect life swarm on every 

 hedgebank, meadow, tree and bush ; on the open down, 

 and in the tangled forest, on the weedy bank, and in 

 the blossomy hedge-row, countless thousands sport 

 their little day, and do the work appointed them to do. 



" Is this a time to be cloudy and sad 

 When our mother Nature laughs around ? 

 When even the deep blue heavens look glad 

 And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground I 

 There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 

 And the gossip of swallows through the sky ; 

 The ground squirrel gaily chirps by his den, 

 And the wilding bee hums merrily by; 



