30 AUGUST 1890, Page 19

THE WANE OF SUMMER: HARVEST-TIME.

SUMMER is passing. From the banks no more Are showered the pendulous sprays of eglantine, The honeysuckle coils have ceased to twine, The fragrance of the meadowsweet is o'er; The skylark that all day was wont to pour Thro' the enchanted air his song divine Has vanished, in mute solitude to pine For the razed wheat from which he used to soar.

Summer is passing. Fitfully we hear Her knell low-muttered 'neath the faint wind's breath ; And yet, so radiant doth her guise appear, In such a golden swoon she slumbereth, That Autumn, from her ambush stealing near, Is half in doubt if it indeed be death.

WILLIAM TOYNBEE.