WILD F L 0 W E H. S. 
183 
those wide meadows, what an affluence of vege¬ 
tation !—How that herd of cattle, in color, and 
form, and grouping, worthy the pencil of Cuyp 
or Ruysdael, graces the plenty of that field of 
most lustrous gold ; and all around, the grass 
growing for the scythe, almost overtops the 
hedges with its abundance. As we track the 
narrow footpath, we cannot avoid a lively ad¬ 
miration of the rich mosaic of colors that are 
woven all through them—the yellow rattle— 
the crimson stems and heads of the burnet, that 
plant of beautiful leaves—the golden trifolium 
—the light quakegrass—the azure milkwort— 
and clover scenting all the air. And lo! there 
are the mowers at work ! there are the hay¬ 
makers ! Green swathes of mown grass—hay¬ 
cocks and wagons ready to bear them away— 
it is summer, indeed !” We must have another 
verse of poetry—another quaff from the Pierian 
springs—what shall it be ? Oh ! let us quote 
from a poet whom we have hitherto too much 
neglected :— 
"Hark ! where the sweeping scythe now rips along; 
Each sturdy mower emulous and strong, 
