The Farm

Is any season sr blithe and merry, So gay with flowerp, or bo sweet with song, As that of the rose and the ripened cherry, When nktats are tianquil and days are long? The earth has forgntten her time of sadnesa, Ths Bilence and shadows have passed away; Ttiere is nothiog but universal gladness Auiong the hay. This is the season when lads and lasses Are up betimes in the sunny field ; When the swtsh of ths Bcythe lays low the grassep, And the paesing hours new pleasures yicld. Tho time of the feative sweet hay-making, When the sporting laugh and the joyons word And the song of sjrateful love partaKiog Are all day heard. Why should we equander the houra in sighine That tbings which are lovely do not staj V' That the dancing grasses so soon are dyiDg? Let us be merry amid the hay. There Í8 time enough for the coming sorrow, There is wealth of beauty around ub yet; Let us u;e to day and leave to-morrow. Nor God forget. Blue and bcight is the sky above ub, Swset with flowers is thescented air, All things whisper that God doth love us. AlUsounds woo us to happy prayer; The forestglades are with joy-soDgs ringing, From morn to night of ihe happy day, Let human voícbb to him be singing, From fieldB of hay. Though far away ave tho days of childhood, Of glad light-heartednees, carelese mirth, There 8 pleasure .still in the field and wildwood. And joy for all dwelleis in Gcd's fair eirth. What does it matter that wo grow oldet? The best shall come whea we paes away ; And we learii a lesson that makes taith bolder From fields of hay. Notlúug is coming tbatneed opprass ub: Let us ratee in trinmph.a truetful song; God is our Falher, and he will bless us - His love makes enminer the whole year long. Though sities stioald darkeD. ani flowers ba failinf, Though lite ho stormy and darsgrow dim, öod's powerand mercy are aye prevailing; ■Ve trust in him.