The soft green grass sliall our carpet he, 
O’er-canopied high by the forest-tree; 
And bank and brooklet, and far-off scene. 
Like pictures, shall show round our haunt, I ween ; 
And wind-flowers, and day’s-eyes, and lilies fair. 
And woodbines and briar-roses sweet and rare. 
Shall be bower and garden.—Come with uS there! 
Spenser’s “ Shepheard’s Calender” has many exquisite 
sketches of scenery, and in his June we find Hobbinol thus 
describing his favourite retreat. 
Lo ! Colin, here the place whose plesaunt syte 
From other shades hath weand my wandring minde. 
Tell mee, what w’ants mee here to worke delyte ? 
The simple ayre, the gentle warbling winde, 
So calme, so coole, as no where else I find ; 
The grassie grounde with daintie daysies flight, 
The bramble bush, where byrdes of every kinde 
To the w'ater’s fall their tunes attemper right. 
Beautiful, in their rich, and calm, and sunlit Summer pride, 
are the rural scenes of our own dear England. Beautiful, even, 
is the memory of spots we have transiently beheld in such 
a season; for though we may dwell in them but an hour, we 
remember them for a life: and often do they rise before the 
mind’s eye like pictures, gladdening many a lonely hour with 
their silent and dreamy eloquence; telling of the thousand 
“ changes of time and tide,” which w^e have seen and felt, since 
we gazed on the bright realities; and proving how ju'ecious is 
