JUNE.

"June" (by James Russell Lowell, 1819-91), is a fragment from "The Vision of Sir Launfal." It finds a place in this volume because it is the most perfect description of a charming day ever written.

What is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in gra.s.s and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green.

The b.u.t.tercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

"A Psalm of Life," by Henry W. Longfellow (1807-82), is like a treasure laid up in heaven. It should be learned for its future value to the child, not necessarily because the child likes it. Its value will dawn on him.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!-- For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like m.u.f.fled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,--act in the living Present!

Heart within, and G.o.d o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

BARNACLES.

"Barnacles" (by Sidney Lanier, 1842-81), is a poem that I teach in connection with my lessons on natural history. We have a good specimen of a barnacle, and the children see them on the sh.e.l.ls on the coast.

The ethical point is invaluable.

My soul is sailing through the sea, But the Past is heavy and hindereth me.

The Past hath crusted c.u.mbrous sh.e.l.ls That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells About my soul.

The huge waves wash, the high waves roll, Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole And hindereth me from sailing!

Old Past, let go, and drop i' the sea Till fathomless waters cover thee!

For I am living, but thou art dead; Thou drawest back, I strive ahead The Day to find.

Thy sh.e.l.ls unbind! Night comes behind; I needs must hurry with the wind And trim me best for sailing.

SIDNEY LANIER.

A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose pa.s.sions not his master's are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame, or private breath.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

HOME, SWEET HOME!

"Home, Sweet Home" (John Howard Payne, 1791-1852) is a poem that reaches into the heart. What is home? A place where we experience independence, safety, privacy, and where we can dispense hospitality.

"The family is the true unit."

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.

Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

An exile from Home, splendour dazzles in vain; O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!

The birds singing gaily, that came at my call,-- Give me them,--and the peace of mind, dearer than all!

Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile!

Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam, But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of Home!

Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; No more from that cottage again will I roam; Be it ever so humble, there's no place like Home.

Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

FROM CASA GUIDI WINDOWS.

JULIET OF NATIONS.

I heard last night a little child go singing 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, _O bella liberta, O bella!_--stringing The same words still on notes he went in search So high for, you concluded the upspringing Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green, And that the heart of Italy must beat, While such a voice had leave to rise serene 'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street; A little child, too, who not long had been By mother's finger steadied on his feet, And still _O bella liberta_ he sang.