Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1836.pdf/26

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UMMER is come, with her leaves and her flowers— Summer is come, with the sun on her hours; The lark in the clouds, and the thrush on the bough, And the dove in the thicket, make melody now. The noon is abroad, but the shadows are cool Where the green rushes grow in the dark forest pool.

We seek not the hedges where violets blow, There alone in the twilight of ev’ning we go; They are love-tokens offered, when heavy with dew,

the olden time, when the churches were strewn with rushes, the ceremony of changing them was a yearly religious festival. The custom, once universal, now lingers only in some of the remote northern districts. There, bunches of rushes, gaily ornamented, attended by banners and music, are still borne in triumph by the young people of the village. Last remains of that pastoral poetry which once characterised "merrie England."