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. 
