THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3274, 13 December 1916, Page 55

THE GARLAND.

FOR THE QUIET HOUR.

No. 172,

By Duncan Weight, Dunedin.

SUMMER!

™ c ° m ing along with a bounding pace, To finish the work that spring begun; Iye left them all with a brighter face, The flowers in the vales through which I've run. I have hung festoons from laburnum-trees, And clothed the lilac, the birch, and broom ; I've waken'd the sound of humming bees, And deck'd all Nature in brighter bloom. I've roused the laugh of the playful child, -A-nd tired it out in the sunny noon; All Nature at my approach hath smiled, And I've made fond lovers seek the moon.

For this is my life, my glorious reign. And I'll queen it well in my leafy bower; All shall be bright in my rich domain; I'm queen of the leaf, the bud, and the flower. And I'll reign in triumph till autumn time Shall conquer my green and verdant pride; Then I'll hie me to another clime, Till I'm called again as a sunny bride. —Anon.

The Summer! the Summer! the exquisite time Of the red rose's blush, and the nightingale's chime; The chant of the -lark, and the boom of the bee— The season of brightness, and beauty, and glee! It is here, it is here!—it is lighting 1 again, AVith sun-braided, smiles, the deep heart of the glen; It is touching the mountain and tinging tho hill, And dimpling- the face of the low-laughing rill; It is flooding the forest-trees richly with bloom, And flinging gold showers in the lap of the broom! I have heard the lark warble his hymn in ihe sky, I have seen the dew-tear hi the meek daisy's eye; I have scented the breath of the fresh open'd flowers, I have pluck'd a rich garland from bright hawthorn bowers ; My footsteps have been where the violet sleeps, And where arches of eglantine hang from the steeps; I have started the linnet from thickets of shade, And roused the fleet stag as he bask'd in the glade; And my spirit is blithe—as a rivulet clear, For the Summer, the gold crown'd Summer, is here! —John Houseman. " Summer in the country! It means a streamlet almost stilled where the waters poured with such intense depth in autumntide and winter ; it means the thirst of hundreds of cattle that lie panting out in the plains, and eagerly awaiting the cooling touch of twinkling showers on the grass ; it means dust on the high road, sometimes blown by the wind to one's nostrils in momentary unpleasantness but it also means THE RICHNESS OF GOD in blossom and in tree; in the varied warble of those songsters who never tire of singing the season's praises, and who give out against our moping disquiet their everlasting hum of hope. Strangely over man's wailing tide of misery summer triumphantly floats the flag of peace and promise, as if at this time God sent His angel to say: This is the reflex of that summer land to which the true can attain ; this is His foretaste of the eternal repose of the songful land. " And 10, as I muse, athwart mountain and distant lake—out over tall tree and amid curveting branches, the red sunset of evening deepens. Bats fly abroad, their flapping wings making wondrous aerial noi?es. and the great white moths of evening come out. Peaceful is the strain blown from the rookery perched on yonder fir ; soft the treble of the nestling birds.

" The -village maiden, with deep peace in her eyes, comes to draw water from the well at eventide, and a,' strain ofdistant bell? floats over the landscape—those ' chiming bells of memory.' too, of ■which the poet speaks so much) ring out: many summers, many blooms, many red evenings awaking to thought and sense, in their cadence, and spirit talks to spirit—to the absent we send our thoughts on air, and prayerful echoes cover the toiling earth, rich in scents, delicioxis with God's promises, which never yet have been known to fail.

" Fair summertide! The poets have snoken much of the young springing blossom and the tender associations of the first flower, and to the thoughtful these must ever be prized; but what weary toiler, what saddened soul would not wish to be abroad in the full glorv of summer, to muse on heart anticipations realised. to behold the fullness which is in store for tho-e who wait and trust?"

Here is how one of the poets sings—sings cheerily and merrily: Give me the gospel of the fields and woods— The sermons written in the Book of books; The sweet communion of the things of "earth Fresh with tlie warm baptism of the stm. ("rive me the offertory of bud and bloom, The perfect carol!ins; of happy birds. Give me the creed of one of G-od's fair days Wrought in the beauty of its loveliness; And then the benediction of the stars, His eloquent ministers of the night.

Once again a gifted woman sings: Hero comes the Summer, so sweet and fair, Flinging her fragrance out to the ntr, Smiling a greeting with eyes ashine, And her brow serene with peace Divine I Summer, dear Summer, I welcome thee, Tho' I know not. what thou dost hold for

me— Whether thy joys I may truly roach, Or whether patience thy lessons may teach) Whether thy sunbeams all day will Ho Bright on my pathway—or whether I

Must walk in shadow part of the way, As thy reign goes on to the close of the day, I welcome, thee for thine own sweet sake! And all that I may I'll gratefully take Of the gifts thou bringest to earth again, To scatter freely o'er hill and plain. May He who sent thee, with all thy cheer, Help to feel His presence near In thy radiant beauty, so fair, bo sweet, Till thy joys within us are all complete, And thy sweetness shall be of His love a part, And thy lessons hide in each grateful heart. —Mary D. Brine.

" There is," says Richard Jeffries, " a slight but perceptible colour in the atmosphere of summer. It is not visible close at hand, nor always where the light falls strongest, and if looked at too long It sometimes fades away. But over gorse and heath, in tho warm hollows of wheatfields, and round about the rising ground there is something more than air alone. It is not mist, nor the hazy vapour of autumn, nor the blue tints that come over distant hills and woods. As there is bloom on the peach and grape, so this is the bloom of summer. The air is ripe and rich, full of the emanations, the perfume, from corn and flower and leafy tree. In strictness the term will not, of course, be accurate, yet by what other word can this appearance in the atmosphere be described but as bloom?"

The Summer vanishes, but soon shall come The glad young clays of yet another year; So do not mourn the passing of a joy, But rather wait tho coming of a good, And know God never takes a gift away But He sends other gifts to take its place.

Catch, then, oh catch the transient hour; Improve each moment as it flics! Life's a short summer, man a flower; He dies—alas! how soon he dies! —Johnson.

". . . The field w-as ready for cart and brawny labourer, and garnering would mark the last chapter and the tale of summer be told. Field by field yields to the glittering knives—hard, cold steel against colour and life and loveliness—the yellow of the cornpales, the rushes in the ditch lose their elasticity and assume grey tips, old age attacks the willow leaves, they are yellow, while the wheat-ranks are not yet thinned. Another page torn from summer's book ; the swifts leave, and the cuckoo, and the sun-side of the whitethorn berries show streaks of ruddiness. [Readers will please note that all this applies to Britain.] '' Mornings are dewy, and the hot haze of three weeks ago has changed to grey mistiness. Walk through the grass when the beams pierce the vapour, and each blade is set with sparkling jewels, kindling lights of ruby and turquoise, that fall in extravagant profusion with every movement of their green setting. It is now that the robin seeks its favoured elm boughs, and fitful snatches of melody are emitted whose pathos are in harmony with the turning of summer's page. The history of the season, from the opening of the May bloom and the nest in the hedge, on to the twitter of the swallow and the sweet June roses, through the time of hay and the pageant of flowers, until the wheatranks are ready for the battle is the grandest that ever was written; and Nature, the writer, repeating herself year and year, is ever new in repetition. "When the dying summer sheds blood on the bramble sprays, and the gossamer floats through the air to catch and catch again before disappearing over the flowers; when Jbe willow wren sings her farewell song to tho woods, and stubble stands in every second field, the final leaf has but to be read. There is pathetic sweetness in departing joy—the last days of summer are beautifully sad. Many a, pleasure in the advancing autumn, many discoveries, but the vigour, and life, and freshness, the exuberance, extravagance, and daily multiplication—never again."

Can you recall the lines on "The Summer's Call," bv Mrs Hemans? Com© away! the sunny hours Woo thee far to founts and bowers! O'er tho very waters now, In their play, Flowers are shedding- beauty's glow— Come awayl Where the lily's tender gleam Quivers on the glancing stream— Come awayl All the air is filled with sound, Soft, and sultry, and profound; Murmurs through the shadowy grass Lightly stray; Faint winds whisper as they pass— Come away! Where the bee's deep music swells From the trembling foxglove bellp— Come awaj'! In the skies the sapphire blueNow has won its richest hue; In the woods the breath of songNight and day Floats with leafy scents along— Come away! Where the boughs with dewy gloom) Darken each thick bed of bloom — Come away! In the deep heart of the rose Now the crimson love-hue "lows; Now the glowworm's lamp by night Sheds a ray, Dreamy, starry, greenly bright— Come away! Where the fairy cup-moss lies. With the wild-wood strawberriesCome away! \ Now each tree by Summer crown d Sheds its own rich twilight round; Glancing thorefrom sun to shade. Bright wings play; ' There the deer its couch has made—■ Come away! Where the smooth leaves of the limo Glisten in the honey time— Gome away—away!