And the while my fancy lingers In that hope-born summer clime, Pretty garments prove my fingers Have been busy all the time. And I care not, though around me Romp the little merry band; Never could the spell that bound me Break at touch of softer hand Than the little hand of Nora, Soiled in search of blossoms rare; For she says they're gifts that Flora Bade her bring to deck my hair. So my summer days are flying On their swift oblivious track; But while love meets fond replying, I would never wish them back. But their precious fragrant roses I would gather and entwine In a wreath, ere summer closes For the autumn's pale decline. THE MISER. BY CHARLES LELAND PORTER. Away from the gladsome and life-giving breeze, In his damp and mouldering cell, Away from the rustle of waving trees, Alone did the miser dwell; Around his wrinkled and careworn brow Hung wild his hoary hair, And the spectre look of death e'en now, And the furrows deep of the Ruler's plow, Sat grim on his temples there. He grasps the gold with his fingers cold, And counts it o'er again, And he envies the snuggling beam of light That creeps through the broken pane; And he starts at every passing sound, And hastily turns the key, And casts a hurried glance around, And, hugging his chest, on the cold, damp ground To his god he bows the knee. The owl on the roof-tree flaps his wings, And moans a plaintive strain, And grimly peers with his glassy eye Over the golden gain; And the pallid smoke from the chimney crawls Away from its mean abode; It cannot rise to heaven, but falls Adown the damp and mouldering walls, And hurries beneath the sod. Oh, I have thought that a mother's love Was the fondest passion yet, As she breathes the breath of her infant babe-- Still, a mother may forget; But the miser's throne is his gold alone, His passion is centred there; His life, his love, his dearest one, The joy of his breast is the tinkling tone, Gold, gold is his fondest fair. The midnight moon looks lovingly down On the sleeping laborer's head; Hushed and still is the busy mill, And the infant's cradle bed; But the miser springs, if a footstep rings, Like a wild beast from his lair; He feels the poison of conscience stings, He fears the robber a bandit brings, And he creeps to his golden care.