A JULY AFTERNOON.

SEE once again our village; with its street
Lazied in dusty sunshine. All around

Is silence, save a tone for slumber meet,

The spinning-wheel's unbroken whirring sound From cottage door, where, basking on his side, The dog lolls motionless and drowsy-eyed.

Each hollyhock within its little wall

Sleeps in the richness of its clustered blooms; Up the hot glass the sluggish blue flies crawl; The heavy bee is humming into rooms Through open window, like a sturdy rover, Bringing with him warm scents of thyme and clover.

From little cottage gardens you almost

Smell the fruit ripening on the sultry air; Oppressed to silence every bird is lost

In cave and hedgerow; save that here and there

With twitter soft, the sole unquiet thing,

Shoots the dark lightning of a swallow's wing.

A JULY EVENING.

ALL things are calm, and fair, and passive. Earth Looks as if lulled upon an angel's lap

Into a breathless, dewy sleep so still

That we can only say of things, They be!

A JULY EVENING.

The lakelet now, no longer vexed with gusts,
Replaces on her breast the pictured moon
Pearled round with stars.

How strangely fair

Yon round still star, which looks half suffering from,
And half rejoicing in its own strong fire,

Making itself a lonelihood of light,

Like Deity, where'er in Heaven it dwells.

How can the beauty of material things

So win the heart and work upon the mind,

Unless like-natured with them? Are great things

And thoughts of the same blood?

They have like effect, for mind.

And matter speak, in causes, of one God.
The inward and the outward worlds are like;
The pure and gross but differ in degree.
Tears, feeling's bright embodied form, are not
More pure than dewdrops, Nature's tears, which she
Sheds in her own breast for the fair which die.
The sun insists on gladness; but at night,
When he is gone, poor Nature loves to weep.

The glory of the world

Is on all hands. In one encircling ken
I gaze on river, sea, isle, continent,

Mountain, and wood, and wild, and fire-tipped hill,
And lake, and golden plain, and sun, and Heaven,
Where the stars brightly die, whose death is day.

127

GLOW-WORMS.

129

GLOW-WORMS.

I HAVE been turning glow-worms to an use this evening, which no naturalist probably ever thought of-reading the Psalms by their cool green radiance. I placed six of the most luminous insects I could find in the grass at the top of the page; moving them from verse to verse, as I descended. The experiment was perfectly successful. Each letter became clear and legible, making me feel deeply and gratefully the inner life of the Psalmist's adoration: “O Lord, how manifold are Thy works, in wisdom hast Thou made them all; the earth is full of Thy goodness."

I know that poetry has turned the fire-fly into a lantern. Southey enables Madoc to behold the features of his beautiful guide by the flame of two fire-flies, which she kept prisoners in a cage, or net of twigs, underneath her garments. But, surely, I am the discoverer of the glow-worm taper. And it answers the purpose admirably. By the help of this emerald of the hedgerow and mossy bank, I can read, not only the hymns of saints to God, but God's message to me. As the glittering grass of the Indian hills taught me wisdom, so these glow-worms are a light to my feet and a lantern to my path. I ought to employ my everyday blessings and comforts as I have been using these insects. I could not have read "Even-song" among the trees by night, unless I had moved the lamp up and down. One verse shone, while the rest of the page was dark. Patience alone was needed. Line by line, the whole psalm grew bright. What a lesson and consolation to me in my journey through the world! Perhaps to-day is a cloudy passage in my little calendar; I am in pain, or sorrow of mind or body; my head throbs, or my heart is disquieted within me. But the cool sequestered paths of the Gospel garden are studded with glow-worms. I have only to stoop and find them.

S

Yesterday was healthfuller and more joyous. My spirits were gayer; my mind was peacefuller; kind friends visited me; or God seemed to lift up the light of His countenance upon me. These recollections are my lanterns in the dark. The past lights up the present. I move my glow-worms lower on the page, and read to-day by yesterday. Not for myself only should these thoughts be cherished. Every beam of grace that falls upon my path ought to throw its little reflection along my neighbour's. Whatever happens to one is for the instruction of another. Even the glow-worm, humblest of stars, has its shadow. Boyle, the friend of Evelyn, makes some excellent remarks on the spiritual eloquence of woods, fields, and water, and all their swarming inhabitants. They who pass Summer-time in the country are especially called to listen and look. The man who goes forth to his work and labour until the evening, has his teacher by his side. The haymakers, who

"Drive the dusky wave along the mead,"

may remind him of the penitent, who said that his heart was withered like grass, so that he forgot to eat his bread; the leafy elm, that shelters the noon-day rest of the reaper, should tell him how the man who stood not in the way of sinners is to be "like a tree planted by the water-side, of which the leaf shall not wither;" and the orchard, that gives shade and fragrance to the cottage door, ought to speak of that ripening warmth of Christian faith, which is to "bring forth more fruit in its age."

When a devout heart knows really how and what to observe, it has advanced a great way towards the comprehension and application of the Apostle's assurance, that "all things work together for good to them that love God." The glow-worm, like the star, has its speech and language. The Christian is at church in his toil and in his loneliness; when the sun shines or the moon rises. The foot of his ladder may rest on a tuft of grass, or a few flowers, but the top reaches to heaven.