



472 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
IT. 
The air is damp, and hushed, and close, 
As a sick man’s room, where he taketh repose 
An hour before death: 
My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves 
At the moist, rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And the breath 
Of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year’s last rose. 
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
O’er its grave i’ the earth so chilly: 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 
Song for August, 
Harriet Martineau. 
ENEATH this starry arch 
Nought resteth or is still; 
But all things hold their march 
As if by one great will. 
Moves one, move all; 
Hark to the foot-fall! 
On, on, for ever. 
Yon sheaves were once but seed; 
Will ripens into deed; 
As eave-drops swell the streams, 
Day thoughts yield nightly dreams, 

