The gloves

It was a sunny summer’s day, The flowers deck’d dale and hill; And gurglingly the streamlet ran That turn’d the clatt’ring mill. The murmurous flies of every tint Flew glittering through the air; And buzzing bees did from the limes Their precious treasures bear.

The air was languid, calm, and sweet, With fragrance overlaid; The slenderest grass unruffled stood, The trees no rustle made. A slumb’rous feeling over all Its gentle influence shed; The lark could scarcely warble, as He floated overhead.

And ’neath a broad far-spreading beech A lovely girl reposed; The deep-fringed curtains of her eyes Serenely o’er them closed. Her bright brown hair in clusters fell Upon her healthy cheek; Her rosy lips were parted as Some gracious words to speak.

A sunbeam glinting thro’ the tree Play’d on her forehead fair; And still more bright and glowing made The glory of her hair. I stood and gazed upon that face As beautiful as Love’s; Nor wonder you, if stooping low, I—won a pair of gloves. J. A. Langford.