All these and many more of His creation That made the Heavens, the angler oft doth see; Taking therein no little delectation, To think how strange, how wonderful they be; Framing, thereof, an inward contemplation, To set his heart from other fancies free; And while he looks on these with joyful eye, His mind is rapt above the starry sky. And since we are thus in the humor of old and rural-imaged verse--notwithstanding the puff and creak of the printing enginery is coming up from the caverns below us (a very Vulcan to the Venus of our thought) we shall ask your thanks for yet another triad of verses, which will (if you be not utterly barren) breed daisies on your vision. The poet has spoken of such omnibus drives and Perrine pavements as offended good sense two or three hundred years ago: Let them that list these pleasures then pursue, And on their foolish fancies feed their fill; So I the fields and meadows green may view, And by the rivers fresh may walk at will, Among the daizies and the violets blue, Red hyacinth, and yellow daffodil, Purple narcissus like the morning rayes, Pale ganderglas, and azure culverkayes. I count it better pleasure to behold The goodly compass of the loftie skie; And in the midst thereof, like burning gold, The flaming chariot of the world's great eye; The wat'ry clouds that in the ayre up rolled With sundry kinds of painted colors flie; And faire Aurora lifting up her head, All blushing rise from old Tithonus' bed. The hills and mountains raised from the plains, The plains extended level with the ground, The ground divided into sundry vaines, The vaines enclosed with running rivers round, The rivers making way through Nature's chaines, With headlong course into the sea profound; The surging sea beneath the vallies low, The vallies sweet, and lakes that gently flow. The reader may thank us for a seasonable bouquet--tied up with old ribbon indeed, and in the old free and easy way--but the perfume is richer than the artificial scents of your modern verse. * * * * * We do not know who first gave the epithet "leafy June;" but the goodness of the term was never so plain, as through that twelfthlet of the year which has just shadowed our paths. Whether it be the heavy rains of the early spring, or an over-luxurious outburst from the over-stiff chains of the last winter--certain it is, that the trees never bore up such heaviness of green, or the grass promised such height and "bottom." And we can not forbear the hope, that the exceeding beauty of the summer will stimulate the activity and benevolence of those guardians of our city joy, in whose hands lies the fate of the "Up-town Park." * * * * *