August 26.

[266]Randle Holme, 1688.[267]Smout.Workmen when they are out of constant work, sometimes accept of a day or two’s work, or a week’s work at another printing house; this by-work they callsmouting.—Holme.

[266]Randle Holme, 1688.

[267]Smout.Workmen when they are out of constant work, sometimes accept of a day or two’s work, or a week’s work at another printing house; this by-work they callsmouting.—Holme.

St. Zephyrinus, Pope,A. D.219.St. Genesius, a Comedian,A. D.303.St. Gelasinus, a Comedian at Heliopolis,A. D.297.St. Genesius, of Arles, about the 4th Cent.

“Il cantar, che nel’ animosi sente.”Nay, tell me not of lordly halls!My minstrels are the trees,The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls,Earth’s sounds my symphonies.There’s music sweeter to my soulIn the weed by the wild wind fanned—In the heave of the surge, than ever stoleFrom mortal minstrel’s hand.There’s mighty music in the roarOf the oaks on the mountain’s side,When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar,And the lightnings flash blue and wide.There’s mighty music in the swellOf winter’s midnight wave—When all above is the thunder peal,And all below is the grave.There’s music in the city’s hum,Heard in the noontide glare,When its thousand mingling voices comeOn the breast of the sultry air.There’s music in the mournful swingOf the lonely village bell—And think of the spirit upon the wing,Releas’d by its solemn knell.There’s music in the forest-stream,As it plays thro’ the deep ravine,Where never summer’s breath or beamHas pierced its woodland screen.There’s music in the thundering sweepOf the mountain waterfall,As its torrents struggle, and foam and leapFrom the brow of its marble wall.There’s music in the dawning morn,Ere the lark his pinion dries—’Tis the rush of the breeze thro’ the dewy corn—Thro’ the garden’s perfumed dyes.There’s music on the twilight cloudAs the clanging wild swans spring,As homewards the screaming ravens crowd,Like squadrons upon the wing.There’s music in the depth of night,When the world is still and dim,And the stars flame out in their pomp of light,Like thrones of the cherubim!

“Il cantar, che nel’ animosi sente.”

Nay, tell me not of lordly halls!My minstrels are the trees,The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls,Earth’s sounds my symphonies.There’s music sweeter to my soulIn the weed by the wild wind fanned—In the heave of the surge, than ever stoleFrom mortal minstrel’s hand.There’s mighty music in the roarOf the oaks on the mountain’s side,When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar,And the lightnings flash blue and wide.There’s mighty music in the swellOf winter’s midnight wave—When all above is the thunder peal,And all below is the grave.There’s music in the city’s hum,Heard in the noontide glare,When its thousand mingling voices comeOn the breast of the sultry air.There’s music in the mournful swingOf the lonely village bell—And think of the spirit upon the wing,Releas’d by its solemn knell.There’s music in the forest-stream,As it plays thro’ the deep ravine,Where never summer’s breath or beamHas pierced its woodland screen.There’s music in the thundering sweepOf the mountain waterfall,As its torrents struggle, and foam and leapFrom the brow of its marble wall.There’s music in the dawning morn,Ere the lark his pinion dries—’Tis the rush of the breeze thro’ the dewy corn—Thro’ the garden’s perfumed dyes.There’s music on the twilight cloudAs the clanging wild swans spring,As homewards the screaming ravens crowd,Like squadrons upon the wing.There’s music in the depth of night,When the world is still and dim,And the stars flame out in their pomp of light,Like thrones of the cherubim!

Nay, tell me not of lordly halls!My minstrels are the trees,The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls,Earth’s sounds my symphonies.

There’s music sweeter to my soulIn the weed by the wild wind fanned—In the heave of the surge, than ever stoleFrom mortal minstrel’s hand.

There’s mighty music in the roarOf the oaks on the mountain’s side,When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar,And the lightnings flash blue and wide.

There’s mighty music in the swellOf winter’s midnight wave—When all above is the thunder peal,And all below is the grave.

There’s music in the city’s hum,Heard in the noontide glare,When its thousand mingling voices comeOn the breast of the sultry air.

There’s music in the mournful swingOf the lonely village bell—And think of the spirit upon the wing,Releas’d by its solemn knell.

There’s music in the forest-stream,As it plays thro’ the deep ravine,Where never summer’s breath or beamHas pierced its woodland screen.

There’s music in the thundering sweepOf the mountain waterfall,As its torrents struggle, and foam and leapFrom the brow of its marble wall.

There’s music in the dawning morn,Ere the lark his pinion dries—’Tis the rush of the breeze thro’ the dewy corn—Thro’ the garden’s perfumed dyes.

There’s music on the twilight cloudAs the clanging wild swans spring,As homewards the screaming ravens crowd,Like squadrons upon the wing.

There’s music in the depth of night,When the world is still and dim,And the stars flame out in their pomp of light,Like thrones of the cherubim!

Banded Amaryllis.Amaryllis vittata.Dedicated toSt. Zephyrinus.

St. Cæsarius, Abp. of Arles,A. D.542.St. Pæmen, orPastor, Abbot aboutA. D.385.St. Hughof Lincoln,A. D.1255.St. Joseph Calasanctius,A. D.1648.St. Malrubius, aboutA. D.1040.St. Syagrius, Bp. of Autun,A. D.600.

Dr. Forster in his “Perennial Calendar” quotes the mention of this and other luminous insects from “a late entomological work,” in the following passage:—“This little planet of the rural scene may be observed in abundance in the month of August, when the earth is almost as thickly spangled with them as the cope of heaven is with stars. It is not only the glowworm that will not bear inspection when its lustre is lost by the light of day; but all those luminous insects that bear the same phosphoric fire about them, such as the lanthorn fly of the West Indies and of China, of which there are several sorts; some of which carry their light in a sort of snout, so that when they are seen in a collection, they are remarkably ugly. There is also an insect of this luminous sort common in Italy, called the lucciola. An intelligent traveller relates, that some Moorish ladies having been made prisoners by the Genoese, lived in a house near Genoa till they could be exchanged, and, on seeing some of the lucciola, or flying glowworms, darting about in the evening in the garden near them, they caused the windows to be shut in a great alarm, from a strange idea which seized them, that these shining flies were the souls of their deceased relations.”

Hedge Hawkweed.Hieracium umbellatum.Dedicated toSt. Cæsarius.

St. Augustine, Bp. and Doctor of the Church,A. D.430.St. Hermes, aboutA. D.132.St. Julian, Martyr.

His name is in the church of England calendar. He was born at Tagasta, in Numidia, in 354. Lardner awards to him the character of an illustrious man, and says, that “a sublime genius, an uninterrupted and zealous pursuit of truth, an indefatigable application, and invincible patience, a sincere piety, and a subtle and lively wit, conspired to establish his fame upon the most lasting foundation:” yet he adds, that “the accuracy and solidity of his judgment were not proportionable to his eminent talents; and that upon many occasions he was more guided by the violent impulse of a warm imagination than by the cool dictates of reason and prudence.” He pronounced that all infants dying before baptism were deprived of the sight of God; wherein he is followed, says Daille, by Gregorius Arminiensis, a famous theological doctor, who from thence was calledTormentum Infantium.

Goldenrod.Solidago Virgaurea.Dedicated toSt. Augustine.

The Decollation of St. John Baptist.St. Sabina.St. Sebbi, orSebba, King, aboutA. D.697.St. Merri, in Latin,Medericus, Abbot, aboutA. D.700.

Yellow Hollyhock.Althea flava.Dedicated toSt. Sabina.

St. Roseof Lima, Virgin,A. D.1617.Sts. FelixandAdauctus, aboutA. D.303.St. Fiaker, Anchoret, called by the French,Fiacre, and anciently,Fefre, aboutA. D.670.St. Pammachius,A. D.410.St. Agilus, commonly calledSt. Aile, aboutA. D.650.

Guernsey Lily.Amaryllis Sarniensis.Dedicated toSt. Rose.

St. Raymund Nonnatus,A. D.1240.St. Isabel,A. D.1270.St. Cuthburge, 8th Cent.St. Aidan, orÆdan,A. D.651.

He was born in Ireland, and was bishop of Lindisfarne, which from the number of reputed saints there buried, is called the Holy Island. Bede relates many miracles and prophecies of him. His cart and two oxen laden with wood as he drove them, falling down a high rock into the sea, he only made the sign of the cross as they fell, and received all safe and sound out of the waters, &c.

Autumnal Pheasant’s Eye.Adonis autumnalis.Dedicated toSt. Raymund.

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