BY W. E. CHANNING .

Orange groves mid-tropic lie,
Festal for the Spanlard's eye,
And the red pomegranate grows
Where the luscious Southwest blows.
Myrrh and spikenard in the East
Multiply the Porsian's feast,
And our Northern wilderness
Boasts its fruits our lips to bless.
Wouldst enjoy a magic sight,
And so heal vexation's spite?
Hasten to my Blueberry swamp, —
Green o'erhead the wild bird's camp;
Here in thickets bending low,
Thickly piled the blueberries grow,
Freely spent on youth and maid,
In the deep swamp's cooling shade.

Pluck the clusters plump and fall,
Handful after handful pull!
Choose which path, the fruitage hangs, —
Fear no more the griping fangs
Of the garden's spaded stuff, —
This is healthy, done enough,
Pull away! the afternoon
Dies beyond the meadow soon.
Art thou a good citizen?
Move into a Blueberry fen,
Here are leisure, wealth and ease,
Sure thy taste and thought to please,
Drugged with Nature's spicy tunes,
Hummed upon the summer noons.

Rich is he that asks no more
Than of Blueberries a store,
Who can snatch the clusters off,
Pleased with himself and than enough
Fame? — the chickadee is calling,
Love? — the fat pine cones are falling,
Heaven? — the berries in the air, —
Eternity? — their juice so rare.
And if thy sorrows will not fly,
Then get thee down and softly die.
In the eddy of the breeze,
Leave the world 'neath those high trees.
Only some admiring fly
Will buzz about thee left to dry,
And the purple runnel's tune
Melodize thy mossy swoon.