I come! I come! ye have called me long;I come o’er the mountains, with light and song!Ye may trace my steps o’er the wakening earth,By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,By the green leaves opening as I pass.I have sent through the wood paths a glowing sigh,And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,From the night bird’s lay through the starry time,In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,To the swan’s wild note, by the Iceland lakes,Where the dark fir branch into verdure breaks.From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;They are sweeping on to the silvery main,They are flashing down from the mountain brows,They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!Where the violets lie may be now your home.Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye,And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.—Felicia Dorothea Hemans.
I come! I come! ye have called me long;I come o’er the mountains, with light and song!Ye may trace my steps o’er the wakening earth,By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,By the green leaves opening as I pass.I have sent through the wood paths a glowing sigh,And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,From the night bird’s lay through the starry time,In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,To the swan’s wild note, by the Iceland lakes,Where the dark fir branch into verdure breaks.From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;They are sweeping on to the silvery main,They are flashing down from the mountain brows,They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!Where the violets lie may be now your home.Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye,And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.—Felicia Dorothea Hemans.
I come! I come! ye have called me long;I come o’er the mountains, with light and song!Ye may trace my steps o’er the wakening earth,By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have sent through the wood paths a glowing sigh,And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,From the night bird’s lay through the starry time,In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,To the swan’s wild note, by the Iceland lakes,Where the dark fir branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;They are sweeping on to the silvery main,They are flashing down from the mountain brows,They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!Where the violets lie may be now your home.Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye,And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.
A young woman carries a garland of leaves and flowers through woodlandF. A. Kaulbach (modern).Spring.
F. A. Kaulbach (modern).
Spring.
The name of the famous Mars, god of war, was given to the first month of spring. This month, formerly the first of the year, is now the third. Mars is fond of storm and strife, and his name is very appropriate for this windy, stormy month. In March the sun turns back in his journey among the stars, and begins to come north again. The days grow longer in our part of the world, and we know that summer is coming.
In April the snows melt, the little brooks awake and chatter over their pebbly beds, the birds return to gladden us with their songs, and the tiny leaves peep out of their winter nests. The earth seems to open to receive the moist rains and the warm winds. April, the beautiful name given to this second month of spring, comes from a Latin word meaning “to open.”
The lovely month of May is a great favorite with the poets. Many of them have written charming poems in her honor. Maia, in whose honor this month was named, is the mother of Mercury, the winged messenger of the gods. The Romans held this god in great honor, and gave the name of his mother to the loveliest of the months.
Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,Comes dancing from the east, and leads with herThe flow’ry May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.Hail, bounteous May! that dost inspireMirth and youth and warm desire;Woods and groves are of thy dressing,Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early song,And welcome thee, and wish thee long.—John Milton.
Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,Comes dancing from the east, and leads with herThe flow’ry May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.Hail, bounteous May! that dost inspireMirth and youth and warm desire;Woods and groves are of thy dressing,Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early song,And welcome thee, and wish thee long.—John Milton.
Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,Comes dancing from the east, and leads with herThe flow’ry May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.Hail, bounteous May! that dost inspireMirth and youth and warm desire;Woods and groves are of thy dressing,Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early song,And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
A young woman reclines on a bank, a basket beside herA. H. Dieffenbach (modern).May.
A. H. Dieffenbach (modern).
May.
Mother, mother, the winds are at play;Prithee, let me be idle to-day.Look, dear mother, the flowers all lieLanguidly under the bright blue sky.See, how slowly the streamlet glides;Look, how the violet roguishly hides;Even the butterfly rests on the rose,And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,And the flies go about him, one by one;And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,Without ever thinking of washing her face.There flies a bird to a neighboring tree,But very lazily flieth he;And he sits and twitters a gentle note,That scarcely ruffles his little throat.You bid me be busy. But, mother dear,How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;And the soft west wind is so light in its play,It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.I wish, O I wish I were yonder cloud,That sails about with its misty shroud;Book and work I no more should see,And I’d come and float, dear mother, o’er thee.—Caroline Gilman.
Mother, mother, the winds are at play;Prithee, let me be idle to-day.Look, dear mother, the flowers all lieLanguidly under the bright blue sky.See, how slowly the streamlet glides;Look, how the violet roguishly hides;Even the butterfly rests on the rose,And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,And the flies go about him, one by one;And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,Without ever thinking of washing her face.There flies a bird to a neighboring tree,But very lazily flieth he;And he sits and twitters a gentle note,That scarcely ruffles his little throat.You bid me be busy. But, mother dear,How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;And the soft west wind is so light in its play,It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.I wish, O I wish I were yonder cloud,That sails about with its misty shroud;Book and work I no more should see,And I’d come and float, dear mother, o’er thee.—Caroline Gilman.
Mother, mother, the winds are at play;Prithee, let me be idle to-day.Look, dear mother, the flowers all lieLanguidly under the bright blue sky.
See, how slowly the streamlet glides;Look, how the violet roguishly hides;Even the butterfly rests on the rose,And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,And the flies go about him, one by one;And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighboring tree,But very lazily flieth he;And he sits and twitters a gentle note,That scarcely ruffles his little throat.
You bid me be busy. But, mother dear,How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;And the soft west wind is so light in its play,It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.
I wish, O I wish I were yonder cloud,That sails about with its misty shroud;Book and work I no more should see,And I’d come and float, dear mother, o’er thee.
June, the month of roses, is named in honor of the stately Juno, queen of the gods. Juno is the goddess of happy marriages, and June is the favorite month for weddings.
July is named in honor of Julius Cæsar, the greatest of the Romans in the art of war. In peace, also, he advanced the condition of the people, and he was a great statesman and writer. He it was who reformed the calendar, and so it is just that his name should be given to one of the months.
Octavius Cæsar was the nephew and heir of Julius Cæsar, the great commander. After conquering his enemies, he became the master of Rome and was named Emperor by the Roman Senate. He ruled the empire wisely and well, and received the title Augustus, which means “worthy of reverence.” From him the eighth month receives its name—August.
Cæsar Augustus was the friend of the poets and orators who lived during his reign. So many beautiful poems were written at that time, and all the arts so flourished, that the reign of Augustus has been called “The Golden Age.”
When leaves grow sear, all things take somber hue;The wild winds waltz no more the woodside through,And all the faded grass is wet with dew.The forest’s cheeks are crimsoned o’er with shame,The cynic frost enlaces every lane,The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame.The ripened nuts drop downward day by day,Sounding the hollow tocsin of decay,And bandit squirrels smuggle them away.Inconstant Summer to the tropics flees,And, as her rose sails catch the amorous breeze,Lo! bare, brown Autumn trembles to her knees.The stealthy nights encroach upon the days,The earth with sudden whiteness is ablaze,And all her paths are lost in crystal maze.With blooms full-sapped again will smile the land,The Fall is but the folding of His hand,Anon with fuller glories to expand.So shall the truant bluebirds backward fly,And all loved things that vanish or that dieReturn to us in some sweet by and by.
When leaves grow sear, all things take somber hue;The wild winds waltz no more the woodside through,And all the faded grass is wet with dew.The forest’s cheeks are crimsoned o’er with shame,The cynic frost enlaces every lane,The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame.The ripened nuts drop downward day by day,Sounding the hollow tocsin of decay,And bandit squirrels smuggle them away.Inconstant Summer to the tropics flees,And, as her rose sails catch the amorous breeze,Lo! bare, brown Autumn trembles to her knees.The stealthy nights encroach upon the days,The earth with sudden whiteness is ablaze,And all her paths are lost in crystal maze.With blooms full-sapped again will smile the land,The Fall is but the folding of His hand,Anon with fuller glories to expand.So shall the truant bluebirds backward fly,And all loved things that vanish or that dieReturn to us in some sweet by and by.
When leaves grow sear, all things take somber hue;The wild winds waltz no more the woodside through,And all the faded grass is wet with dew.
The forest’s cheeks are crimsoned o’er with shame,The cynic frost enlaces every lane,The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame.
The ripened nuts drop downward day by day,Sounding the hollow tocsin of decay,And bandit squirrels smuggle them away.
Inconstant Summer to the tropics flees,And, as her rose sails catch the amorous breeze,Lo! bare, brown Autumn trembles to her knees.
The stealthy nights encroach upon the days,The earth with sudden whiteness is ablaze,And all her paths are lost in crystal maze.
With blooms full-sapped again will smile the land,The Fall is but the folding of His hand,Anon with fuller glories to expand.
So shall the truant bluebirds backward fly,And all loved things that vanish or that dieReturn to us in some sweet by and by.
The months of September, October, November, and December are named from Latin words that mean “seven,” “eight,” “nine,” and “ten.”
When the beginning of the year was placed in March, these months were named from their position the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth months. When the first day of January was made the first day of the year, these months became the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth months, but their names were not changed. December is, of course, the first month of winter.
Each year has three hundred and sixty-five days, except leap year, which comes once in four years. In leap years there are three hundred and sixty-six days, the extra day being added to the month of February.
The days are not evenly divided among the twelve months, but, as the old rhyme says,—
“Thirty days hath September,April, June, and November;All the rest have thirty-one,Excepting February alone,Which hath but twenty-eight, in fine,Till leap year gives it twenty-nine.”
“Thirty days hath September,April, June, and November;All the rest have thirty-one,Excepting February alone,Which hath but twenty-eight, in fine,Till leap year gives it twenty-nine.”
“Thirty days hath September,April, June, and November;All the rest have thirty-one,Excepting February alone,Which hath but twenty-eight, in fine,Till leap year gives it twenty-nine.”
Three angels are gathered close to two large bellsBlashfield (modern).The New-year Bells.
Blashfield (modern).
The New-year Bells.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light;The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.Ring out old shapes of foul disease,Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.—Alfred Tennyson.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light;The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.Ring out old shapes of foul disease,Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.—Alfred Tennyson.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light;The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.
A little girl watches a woman bottlefeed one of a small group of lambsA. H. Waterlow (modern).A May Scene.
A. H. Waterlow (modern).
A May Scene.
When the New Year comes, we all hold out our hands to the welcome guest, and are glad to see his young and smiling face. So we have made the first day of January a holiday, that friends may wish one another a “Happy New Year.”
February has many days that are dear to us. The birthdays of our noble presidents, Lincoln and Washington, are always celebrated with honor for their greatness and rejoicings for our country’s prosperity. Longfellow and Lowell, two of our greatest poets, are also remembered. St. Valentine’s Day is a festival welcome to children, and to all who love to see young people gay and happy.
In March we have no holiday.
In many of our states a very interesting holiday has been given to April. It is called “Arbor Day,” for on this day trees are planted. Men have always felt a reverence for trees, and have believed that
“The groves were God’s first temples.”
“The groves were God’s first temples.”
“The groves were God’s first temples.”
The Greeks gave a personality to trees, and the Druids worshiped the strong and noble oak. So we are setting aside a day when all the people shall make holiday, and plant trees whose shade shall refresh andwhose fruit shall nourish us. This is a beautiful holiday, and one full of meaning. Our poet Bryant says,—
“What plant we in this apple tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springsTo load the May wind’s restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts fragrance through our open doors;A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,We plant with the apple tree.”
“What plant we in this apple tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springsTo load the May wind’s restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts fragrance through our open doors;A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,We plant with the apple tree.”
“What plant we in this apple tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springsTo load the May wind’s restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts fragrance through our open doors;A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,We plant with the apple tree.”
May brings with her one of the most sacred and beautiful days of all the year. On Memorial, or Decoration, Day we cover with flowers the graves of those who died to preserve the nation.
In England and in Sweden, May Day is given up to dance and song and flower shows. This festival began in honor of Odin, the old Norse god of the sun.
June has no day that is remembered as a universal holiday. But in July we find the greatest day of the year—the Fourth of July, Independence Day. Every child knows that on this day our nation was born. The flags, the drums, the trumpets, the cannon,—all awaken in the breast of every American a thrill of love and pride that will never pass away.
Portrait depicting the young ChristPrescott Davies (modern).The Christ Child.
Prescott Davies (modern).
The Christ Child.
August is passed by; but on the first Monday in September comes Labor Day. This has beencelebrated for only a few years, but the meaning of the holiday lies deep in the minds and hearts of men who realize that labor is man’s greatest blessing and hope.
Thanksgiving Day, generally the last Thursday in November, is sacred to the memory of our honored ancestors, who bravely and nobly endured the cold and want of that first New England winter, confident that the God whom they trusted and served would not forget them.
“Aye, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod!They have left unstained what there they found,—Freedom to worship God!”
“Aye, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod!They have left unstained what there they found,—Freedom to worship God!”
“Aye, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod!They have left unstained what there they found,—Freedom to worship God!”
December has the children’s great festal day,—the blessed Christmas, when the lessons of Christ’s life blossom into deeds, and a loving spirit seems to spread over all the land. The carols, the Christmas trees, the merry bells, make the heart gay, and all the air resounds with Christmas glee. We read the Christmas stories, sing the old songs, send loving greetings to absent friends, and rejoice with the happy children, for “of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
In the southern countries of Europe, the days of the week were named after the gods of the Greeks and Romans. But in our country, and in some of the countries of northern Europe, the gods of the North have given their names to the days.
Sunday and Monday received their names from the sun and the moon—the radiant lamps that light the earth by day and by night.
Tiw is the god of honorable war, the son of Odin and Frigga, the earth mother. His emblem is the sword, and in olden days the people did him great homage. Tuesday, the third day of the week, was named in his honor.
Wednesday was called Woden’s day, in honor of Woden, or Odin, the king of the gods. He was often called the All Father.
Thor, the son of Odin, is one of the twelve great gods of northern mythology. “Whenever he throws his wonderful hammer,” they used to say, “the noise of thunder is heard through the heavens. He is the only god who cannot cross from earth to heaven upon the rainbow, for he is so heavy and powerful that the gods fear it will break under his weight.” Thursday was sacred to Thor.
Thor, carrying his hammer, rides in an open cart pulled by two goatsThor.
Thor.
“I am the Thunderer!Here in my Northland,My fastness and fortress,Reign I forever!”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“I am the Thunderer!Here in my Northland,My fastness and fortress,Reign I forever!”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“I am the Thunderer!Here in my Northland,My fastness and fortress,Reign I forever!”
Friday was the day sacred to Frigga, queen of the gods.
Saturday received its name from Sæter, god of the harvest.
“One poor day!—Remember whose, and not how short it is!It is God’s day, it is Columbus’s.A lavish day! One day, with life and heart,Is more than time enough to find a world.”—James Russell Lowell.
“One poor day!—Remember whose, and not how short it is!It is God’s day, it is Columbus’s.A lavish day! One day, with life and heart,Is more than time enough to find a world.”—James Russell Lowell.
“One poor day!—Remember whose, and not how short it is!It is God’s day, it is Columbus’s.A lavish day! One day, with life and heart,Is more than time enough to find a world.”
“No man is born into the world whose workIs not born with him. There is always work,And tools to work withal, for those who will;And blesséd are the horny hands of toil!The busy world shoves angrily asideThe man who stands with arms akimbo set,Until occasion tells him what to do;And he who waits to have his task marked outShall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.”—James Russell Lowell.
“No man is born into the world whose workIs not born with him. There is always work,And tools to work withal, for those who will;And blesséd are the horny hands of toil!The busy world shoves angrily asideThe man who stands with arms akimbo set,Until occasion tells him what to do;And he who waits to have his task marked outShall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.”—James Russell Lowell.
“No man is born into the world whose workIs not born with him. There is always work,And tools to work withal, for those who will;And blesséd are the horny hands of toil!The busy world shoves angrily asideThe man who stands with arms akimbo set,Until occasion tells him what to do;And he who waits to have his task marked outShall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.”
The spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal skyAnd spangled heavens, a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.The unwearied sun, from day to day,Does his Creator’s power display;And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.Soon as the evening shades prevail,The moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly, to the listening earth,Repeats the story of her birth;Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.What though, in solemn silence, allMove round this dark terrestrial ball?What though no real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found?In reason’s ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice,Forever singing, as they shine,“The hand that made us is divine!”—Joseph Addison.
The spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal skyAnd spangled heavens, a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.The unwearied sun, from day to day,Does his Creator’s power display;And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.Soon as the evening shades prevail,The moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly, to the listening earth,Repeats the story of her birth;Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.What though, in solemn silence, allMove round this dark terrestrial ball?What though no real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found?In reason’s ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice,Forever singing, as they shine,“The hand that made us is divine!”—Joseph Addison.
The spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal skyAnd spangled heavens, a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.The unwearied sun, from day to day,Does his Creator’s power display;And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,The moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly, to the listening earth,Repeats the story of her birth;Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, allMove round this dark terrestrial ball?What though no real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found?In reason’s ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice,Forever singing, as they shine,“The hand that made us is divine!”
The sea at night breaks against steps leading to a turreted buildingMoonlight on the Ocean.
Moonlight on the Ocean.
All through the warm days of July and August, the grain ripens in the rays of the sun, and in September the fields are yellow with nodding heads of golden grain. Ceres, the earth mother, has been driving north and south, east and west.
Two beautiful maidens always attend her,—Flora, with garlands of roses, who cares for the lovely flowers, and Pomona, who ripens the fruits for man to eat.
As Ceres passes, the fields and woods gleam with color and beauty, and all the voices of nature join man’s in hymns of thanksgiving for her bounty. The old Greeks tell us, that it is she who taught men how to cultivate the fields; how to prepare the soil for the seed, when to plant the many grains and fruits, and how to care for the young and tender plants.
In autumn, after the work of spring and summer, she rejoices in the bounteous harvests, in the vineyards filled with purple grapes. Great golden pumpkins, like huge apples, lie basking in Apollo’s rays; the purple aster and the golden-rod add color to the landscape. Ceres is glad at heart. She is happy in the results of her labor and in the presence of her lovely daughter, Persephone. But when Persephone leaves her mother, Ceres is sad, and winter, cold and drear, settles over the earth.
Ceres, carrying wheat and leaning on a staffVatican, Rome.Ceres.
Vatican, Rome.
Ceres.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven’s own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night.Thou comest not when violets leanO’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple dressed,Nod o’er the ground bird’s hidden nest.Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,When woods are bare and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near his end.Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue—blue—as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.—William Cullen Bryant.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven’s own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night.Thou comest not when violets leanO’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple dressed,Nod o’er the ground bird’s hidden nest.Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,When woods are bare and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near his end.Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue—blue—as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.—William Cullen Bryant.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven’s own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets leanO’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple dressed,Nod o’er the ground bird’s hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,When woods are bare and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue—blue—as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.
You will wonder why Persephone is not always with her mother. This is the story the Greeks tell.
As Ceres takes care of the ripening grains and fruits all over the earth, it is necessary for her to visit every country of the world. One day she was seated in her chariot drawn by those wonderful winged dragons, ready to set forth on her travels. She kissed her little daughter, and warned her not to go far from home. She had never before felt so anxious about leaving her little girl, but she had to go.
Persephone threw a loving kiss to her fond mother, and then went to the shore of the sea to play with the sea nymphs. They are graceful, slender girls, with sea-green hair and eyes like opals. They are charming playmates, but cannot come out of the water. Persephone gathered flowers for them, and was obedient to her mother’s command.
But Pluto, the god of the palaces of gold and silver under the earth, looking out from one of the caverns, saw the pretty child, and wanted to carry her away to his home. So he caused a wonderful flower, all crimson and gold, to charm Persephone farther away. She stooped to pick it; and lo! it came up by the roots, adeep cavern yawned, and the chariot of King Pluto appeared.
The driver, who was King Pluto himself, caught the frightened Persephone in his arms. Whipping his coal-black steeds, he hurried away with her to his home in Hades.
Three young women carry firewood through snowy woodlandL. Munthe (modern).A Winter Scene.
L. Munthe (modern).
A Winter Scene.
Arbutus lies beneath the snows,While winter waits her brief repose,And says, “No fairer flower grows!”Of sunny April days she dreams,Of robins’ notes and murmuring streams,And smiling in her sleep she seems.She thinks her rosy buds expandBeneath the touch of childhood’s hand,And beauty breathes throughout the land.The arching elders bending o’erThe silent river’s sandy shore,Their golden tresses trim once more.The pussy willows in their playTheir varnished caps have flung away,And hung their furs on every spray.The toads their cheery music chant,The squirrel seeks his summer haunt,And life revives in every plant.“I must awake! I hear the bee!The butterfly I long to see!The buds are bursting on the tree!”Ah! blossom, thou art dreaming, dear;The wild winds howl about thee hereThe dirges of the dying year!Thy gentle eyes with tears are wet;In sweeter sleep these pains forget;Thy merry morning comes not yet!—William Whitman Bailey.
Arbutus lies beneath the snows,While winter waits her brief repose,And says, “No fairer flower grows!”Of sunny April days she dreams,Of robins’ notes and murmuring streams,And smiling in her sleep she seems.She thinks her rosy buds expandBeneath the touch of childhood’s hand,And beauty breathes throughout the land.The arching elders bending o’erThe silent river’s sandy shore,Their golden tresses trim once more.The pussy willows in their playTheir varnished caps have flung away,And hung their furs on every spray.The toads their cheery music chant,The squirrel seeks his summer haunt,And life revives in every plant.“I must awake! I hear the bee!The butterfly I long to see!The buds are bursting on the tree!”Ah! blossom, thou art dreaming, dear;The wild winds howl about thee hereThe dirges of the dying year!Thy gentle eyes with tears are wet;In sweeter sleep these pains forget;Thy merry morning comes not yet!—William Whitman Bailey.
Arbutus lies beneath the snows,While winter waits her brief repose,And says, “No fairer flower grows!”
Of sunny April days she dreams,Of robins’ notes and murmuring streams,And smiling in her sleep she seems.
She thinks her rosy buds expandBeneath the touch of childhood’s hand,And beauty breathes throughout the land.
The arching elders bending o’erThe silent river’s sandy shore,Their golden tresses trim once more.
The pussy willows in their playTheir varnished caps have flung away,And hung their furs on every spray.
The toads their cheery music chant,The squirrel seeks his summer haunt,And life revives in every plant.
“I must awake! I hear the bee!The butterfly I long to see!The buds are bursting on the tree!”
Ah! blossom, thou art dreaming, dear;The wild winds howl about thee hereThe dirges of the dying year!
Thy gentle eyes with tears are wet;In sweeter sleep these pains forget;Thy merry morning comes not yet!
When Ceres returned and could not find her little girl, she was frantic. Over the whole earth she drove her chariot, calling upon all things to help her in her search—but in vain!
Then she became so sad that she refused to allow the earth to produce any food for man or beast. The flowers and trees and harvests drooped and faded. In vain did gods and men plead with her. She would not be comforted.
At last Jupiter sent the swift-flying Mercury, messenger of the gods, to Pluto, commanding him to release Persephone. When Ceres saw her daughter restored to her, what joy was hers! Yet she feared one thing.
“Have you eaten anything in Pluto’s kingdom, my child?” was her anxious question.
“Yes, dear mother,” Persephone replied, “six pomegranate seeds.”
“Alas! then you must remain with Pluto six months of every year,” said the sad Ceres.
Thus it is that for six months Ceres and Persephone are together, the earth is covered with the blessed gifts of Ceres, and it is summer over the land. But when they are separated, the mother grieves, and winter is king.
A young woman sits on the shoreline and stares out to seaNonnenbruch (modern).Copyright, 1895, by Photographische Gesellschaft.Waiting.
Nonnenbruch (modern).
Copyright, 1895, by Photographische Gesellschaft.
Waiting.
Serene I fold my hands and wait,Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;I rave no more ’gainst time or fateFor lo, my own shall come to me.I stay my haste, I make delays;For what avails this eager pace?I stand amid the eternal ways,And what is mine shall know my face.Asleep, awake, by night or day,The friends I seek are seeking me;No wind can drive my bark awayNor change the tide of destiny.What matter if I stand alone?I wait with joy the coming years;My heart shall reap where it has sown,And gather up its fruits of tears.The waters know their own and drawThe brook that springs from yonder height.So flows the good with equal lawUnto the soul of pure delight.The stars come nightly to the sky,The tidal wave unto the sea;Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor highCan keep my own away from me.—John Burroughs.
Serene I fold my hands and wait,Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;I rave no more ’gainst time or fateFor lo, my own shall come to me.I stay my haste, I make delays;For what avails this eager pace?I stand amid the eternal ways,And what is mine shall know my face.Asleep, awake, by night or day,The friends I seek are seeking me;No wind can drive my bark awayNor change the tide of destiny.What matter if I stand alone?I wait with joy the coming years;My heart shall reap where it has sown,And gather up its fruits of tears.The waters know their own and drawThe brook that springs from yonder height.So flows the good with equal lawUnto the soul of pure delight.The stars come nightly to the sky,The tidal wave unto the sea;Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor highCan keep my own away from me.—John Burroughs.
Serene I fold my hands and wait,Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;I rave no more ’gainst time or fateFor lo, my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays;For what avails this eager pace?I stand amid the eternal ways,And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,The friends I seek are seeking me;No wind can drive my bark awayNor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?I wait with joy the coming years;My heart shall reap where it has sown,And gather up its fruits of tears.
The waters know their own and drawThe brook that springs from yonder height.So flows the good with equal lawUnto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky,The tidal wave unto the sea;Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor highCan keep my own away from me.
Apollo in his chariot, which is surrounded by female figures, follows AuroraGuido Reni (1575-1642).The Aurora.
Guido Reni (1575-1642).
The Aurora.
The palace of the sun is far away in the east. The walls are of silver, the ceilings of carved ivory, and the pillars of gold shining with many jewels.
Phœbus Apollo, in a robe of royal purple, sits upon a golden throne, and the bright rays shining from his golden hair light up the palace and dazzle the eyes. On either hand stand the Day, the Month, the Year, and the rosy Hours, who attend him in his daily course through the heavens.
When his beautiful twin sister, Diana, the queen of the night, has finished her course through the deep bluesky, and all the stars are gone, Aurora, the dawn, opens the silvery eastern bars and shows a path covered with roses. Beautiful, rosy boys hold torches to light up the path, and to tell the people of the earth that the sun god is coming. The agile Hours quickly harness the impatient horses, Apollo mounts his chariot, takes the reins, and away they gallop, delighted with their task.
The wind arises from the sea, and wafts the clouds along; the birds stir in the trees, and begin their sweet morning song; the leaves rustle, and the flowers raise their perfumed heads and say “good morning!” The little children open their eyes with a laugh and shout, for another day of play. All the world is awake to give thanks for the glorious sunlight!
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,And Phœbus ’gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes;With everything that pretty binMy lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!—William Shakespeare.
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,And Phœbus ’gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes;With everything that pretty binMy lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!—William Shakespeare.
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,And Phœbus ’gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes;With everything that pretty binMy lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!
Diana, crowned with a crescent moon, in her chariot and carrying bow and arrowsCorreggio (1494-1534).The Moon Goddess.
Correggio (1494-1534).
The Moon Goddess.
Diana, the goddess of the moon, is the twin sister of Apollo. She completes her journey around the earth once in a month. Her chariot is of polished silver, and her horses are dark as night. She is a strong and beautiful goddess, with a robe of deepest azure, and a golden crescent in her black hair.
When Apollo sinks in the west, the chariot of Diana appears, and she drives like a queen over the floor of heaven, which is studded with twinkling stars. How lovely is the night! Sometimes we see only a silver crescent, and the rim of the moon. This the children call the baby moon. But night after night the moon shows more and more of her silver face, until she seems like a great ball floating high in air. This we call the full moon. The stars are her maidens, who welcome her coming and attend her on her journey.
In September, the grains are gathered into the barns, and we call the full moon in that month the Harvest Moon.
The October full moon is the Hunter’s Moon, for in that month Diana leads the jolly hunters. Then, according to the old Greeks, she leaves her chariot, sees that her bow and arrows are ready, calls her maidens, and steps forward, strong and free, to the chase.
Fieldworkers return home from work by the light of a full moonMason (modern).The Harvest Moon.
Mason (modern).
The Harvest Moon.
Lady moon, lady moon,Sailing so high!Drop down to babyFrom out the blue sky:Babykin, babykin,Down far below,I hear thee calling,But I cannot go.But lady moon sendeth theeSoft, shining rays;Moon loves the baby,The moonlight says.In her house dark and blue,Though she must stay,Kindly she’ll watch theeTill dawns the new day.
Lady moon, lady moon,Sailing so high!Drop down to babyFrom out the blue sky:Babykin, babykin,Down far below,I hear thee calling,But I cannot go.But lady moon sendeth theeSoft, shining rays;Moon loves the baby,The moonlight says.In her house dark and blue,Though she must stay,Kindly she’ll watch theeTill dawns the new day.
Lady moon, lady moon,Sailing so high!Drop down to babyFrom out the blue sky:Babykin, babykin,Down far below,I hear thee calling,But I cannot go.
But lady moon sendeth theeSoft, shining rays;Moon loves the baby,The moonlight says.In her house dark and blue,Though she must stay,Kindly she’ll watch theeTill dawns the new day.
A dark-haired young woman sits on a crescent moonF. A. Kaulbach (modern).Lady Moon.
F. A. Kaulbach (modern).
Lady Moon.
Diana had seven graceful maidens who hunted the deer with her. One day they saw Orion, a great hunter, coming toward them with his dog and his big club. Orion was a giant, and the maidens feared him and ran away.
Orion called to them not to be afraid, for he wished to hunt with them. But still they fled, and when they were weary and saw that he was overtaking them, they called upon the gods to save them from the mighty hunter. The gods loved them, and listened to their cries. When Orion thought he had at last caught up with them, he saw, not the maidens, but seven snow-white doves flying away under the azure sky.
At night, when the queenly Diana looked down from her chariot, she saw that her attendants had been transformed to doves. As she could not give them their original form, she placed them in the heavens as stars to attend her during the night.
The seven sisters dance in a graceful circleElihu Vedder (modern).The Dance of the Pleiades.
Elihu Vedder (modern).
The Dance of the Pleiades.
These sister stars we call the group of the Pleiades. For a long time they accompanied their queen in her journey. At last the Trojan war broke out, and they were terrified and covered their faces. The youngest of the sweet sisters was so frightened that she hid behind the others. In some way she became separatedfrom them and lost her way. Now there are only six stars in the constellation called the Pleiades, and the little sister is constantly searching for them.
There is a beautiful statue called “The Lost Pleiad” which shows a lovely young girl borne by the clouds and looking eagerly for her beloved sisters.