7 6 September. 
The primrose to the grave is gone ; 
The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet by the mossed grey stone 
Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 
In all their beauteous power, 
The fresh, green days of life’s fair Spring, 
And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more 
Thou bidd’st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o’er, 
In freedom and in joy. 
Ebcnezer Elliott. 
HARVEST HOME. 
Here once a-year Distinction lowers her crest; 
The master, servant, and the merry guest 
Are equal, all ; and, round the happy ring, 
The reaper’s eyes exulting glances fling ; 
And, warmed with gratitude, he quits his place, 
With sunburnt hands and ale-enliven’d face, 
Re-fills the jug, his honoured host to tend, 
To serve at once the master and the friend ; 
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, 
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale. 
Bloomfield. 
