JULY. 209 



Thou, who didst deem divine 



The shrill cicada's tune, 

 When the odours of the pine 



Gush'd through the woods at noon ? 



I have run my fervid race, 



I have wrought my task once more ; 



I have filPd each fruitful place 

 With a plenty that runs o'er. 



There is treasure in the garner, 



There is honey with the bee ; 

 And oh ! thou thankless scorner, 



There's a parting boon for thee ! 



Soon as in misty sadness, 



Sere Autumn yields her reign, 

 Winter with stormy madness 



Shall chase thee from the plain. 



Then shall these scenes elysian 



Bright in thy spirit burn, 

 And each summer thought and vision 



Be thine till I return. 



W. H. 



FIELD PATHS are at this season particularly at- 

 tractive. I love our real old English foot-paths. 1 

 love those rustic and picturesque stiles opening their 

 pleasant escapes from frequented places and dusty 

 highways into the solitudes of Nature. It is delight- 

 ful to catch a glimpse of one on the old village-green ; 

 under the old elder-tree by some ancient cottage, or 

 half hidden by the overhanging boughs of a wood. 

 I love to see the smooth, dry track, winding away 

 in easy curves, along some green slope to the church- 

 18* 



