COUNTRY BOY'S BOAST.

And hath he not whereof he needs must sing?
    And hath he not whereof he well may boast?—
He from whose kin so many a one did spring
    To shape the mighty rocks that guard the coast
    Of History 'gainst Time, lest all be lost;
And chiefly those who stamped the speaking page,
    Who bore the standard of Achievement's host
In Fame's tenth legion, from the earliest age
Till stately Vergil wrote, till Chelsea's Vulcan sage.

Judea's royal, world-renowned bard
    Was once a shepherd. How must Bethlehem's hills
Have leaped and grown more lovely as they heard;
    Till raging monsters, music-charmed, he kills.
    And saves his flock, or with his harping stills
More dire destroyers in his monarch's breast!
    And whence did Job arise, that prince whose ills,—
Lost, flocks, lands, family, all that he possessed,—
Wrung the immoral song his virtue to attest?

Let him be proud in later days to roam
    In Warwick vales by virtuous Avon's shore,
Through fields of Ayr, around the humble home
    Of him, the Cincinnatus of song, or o'er
    Ettrick and Tweeddale in their days of yore,
Or with the Seasons' bard on Cheviot green,
    With young Chile Harold laugh o'er Loch na Garr,
The Solitary trace through Cumbrian scene,
Or weep on Sussex downs with him of gentle mien.

BEFORE HARVEST.

And now 'tis time for Harvest. Hark! and lo,
    With ringing sound of full melodious horn,
Over yon eastern hill-top all aglow,—
    Her sickle gleaming in the golden morn,
    Her arm upraised with sheaf of yellow corn,—
She comes elate with light, elastic pace;
    Her neck and zone full-clustered vines adorn;
Her saffron locks, fruit-crowned; her luscious grace;
Her round and ripened form; her fair, benignant face.

And now the fields, when suns serenely greet,
    A rich and mellow, wanton joy afford:
The russet pease vines, and the burnished wheat
    And whiter barley,—hating to be stored,
    Guarding with jealous spears their precious hoard,—
The tapering oat-stalk, dangling beads of gold:
    In brilliant sea of beauty all outpoured,
With dazzling depth of splendor all untold,
Where fleets of zephyrs skip in fold that follows fold

Like to a dream I had but yesternight,
    Of pure, transporting, childlike playfulness,
The presence of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, bright,
    Thoughtless and laughing.—Words can not express
    In poet phrase the fulness that did bless
Entrancingly my vision. I advanced
    Behind to worship. Straight each golden tress
Was ruffled and about my face they danced,
Smoth'ring with beauty, while the maiden gleeful glanced.

IN ANTICIPATION OF AUTUMN.

But now the Summer hastens to its close,
    And soon will Song a different aspect wear,
Sweeping terrific, clad in ghostly snows,
    And lit by the flash of the Boreal glare,
    Or, but a poet in his easy chair;
And her most pleasing aspect now beguiles
    What time is hers with deft, endearing air:
With gorgeous gold she decks her garments, whiles
Her melancholy face with Indian Summer smiles.

Thy very smile sends sadness to my heart.
    Farewell! sweet love, the happy hour is o'er:
Too well I knew that we again must part.
    Her garments trail the fond, reluctant floor.
    But I shall ne'er forget the dress she wore,
Her looks, her