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The soft green grass shall our carpet be,
O'er canopied high by the forest-tree;
And bank and brooklet, and far-off scene,
Like pictures shall show round our haunt, I ween,
And wind-flowers, and day's-eyes, and lilies fair,
And woodbines and briar-roses sweet and rare,
Shall be bower and garden.—Come with us there!
Spenser's "Shepheard's Calender" has many exquisite sketches of scenery, and in his June we find Hobbinol thus describing his favourite retreat.
Lo! Colin, here the place whose plesaunt syte
From other shades hath weand my wandring minde,
Tell mee, what wants mee here to worke delyte?
The simple ayre, the gentle warbling winde,
So calme, so coole, as no where else I find;
The grassie grounde with daintie daysies dight,
The bramble bush, where byrdes of every kinde
To the waters fall their tunes attemper right.
Beautiful, in their rich, and calm, and sunlit Summer pride, are the rural scenes of our own dear England. Beautiful, even, is the memory of spots we have transiently beheld in such a season; for though we may dwell in them but an hour, we remember them for a life: and often do they rise before the mind's eye like pictures, gladdening many a lonely hour with their silent and dreamy eloquence; telling of the thousand "changes of time and tide," which we have seen and felt, since we gazed on the bright realities; and proving how precious is
