T SUMMER DROUGHT. HEN winter came the land was lean and sere, There fell no snow, and oft from wild and field In famished tameness came the drooping deer, And though at spring we plowed and proffered seed, Yet ere the noon, as brass the heaven turns, On either side the shoe-deep dusted lane The meagre wisps of fennel scorch to wire: Slow lags the team that drags an empty wain, And, creaking dry, a wheel runs off its tire. No flock upon the naked pasture feeds, No blithesome "Bob-White" whistles from the fence; A gust runs crackling through the brittle weeds, And heat and silence seem the more intense! T HERE is a serene and settled majesty in forest scenery that enters into the soul, and dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations. The ancient and hereditary groves, too, which everywhere abound, are most of them full of story. They are haunted by the recollections of the great spirits of past ages who have sought relaxation among them from the tumult of arms or the toils of state, or have wooed the muse beneath their shade. |