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SELECT POETRY. 
O! THE FLOWERY MONTH OF JUNE. 
O! the flowerjimonth of June, again, I hail as Summer’s queen ; 
The hills and vallies sing in joy, and all the woods are green ; 
The streamlets flow in gladsome song, the birds are all in tune. 
And Nature smiles in Summer pride, in the flowery month of June! 
There’s music in the laughing sky, and balm upon the air ; 
The earth is stamped with loveliness, and all around is fair. 
There’s glory on the mountain top, and gladness on the plain; 
The flowers wake from their wintry bed, and blush in bloom again! 
O ! the flowery month of June, my heart is bounding wild and free, 
As with a fond and longing look, I gaze once more on thee! 
With all thy thousand spangling gems—a bright and blessed boon_ 
That come to cheer and welcome in, the flowery month of June ! 
The Lark hath sought an upward home, far in the dewy air ; 
While lowly by the Rose’s cheek, the Blackbird’s singing there ; 
Or, in its leafy bowers unseen, the Thrush bursts forth in song, 
A low and pleasing melody, the woody dells among! 
O ! the flowery month of June, ah ! me, where are the fond ones fled ? 
No Spring comes for the parted friends, nor Summer to the dead ! 
I miss them at the calm of eve, or sunny hour of noon; 
Nor morning songs awake the dead, in the flowery month of June ! 
Robert Gilfillan. 
SONG OF THE WORM . 
The Worm—the rich Worm has a noble demain 
In the field that is stored with its millions of slain; 
The charnel-grounds widen, to me they belong, 
With the vaults of the sepulchre sculptured and strong. 
The tower of ages in fragments is laid, 
Moss grows on the stones, and I lurk in its shade; 
And the hand of the giant and heart of the brave 
Must turn weak and submit to the Worm and the grave. 
Daughters of earth, if I happen to meet 
Your bloom-plucking fingers and sod-treading feet— 
Oh ! turn not away with the shriek of disgust, 
From the thing you must mate with in darkness and dust. 
Y our eyes may be flashing in pleasure and pride, 
’Neath the crown of a queen or the wreath of a bride,— 
- Your lips may be fresh and your cheeks may be fair— 
Let a few years pass over, and I shall be there ! 
