The feathery foliage has broadened its leaves,
    And June, with its beautiful mornings and eves,
    Its magical atmosphere, breezes and blooms,
    Its woods all delicious with thousand perfumes,—­
    First-born of the Summer,—­spoiled pet of the year,—­
    June, delicate queen of the seasons, is here!

    The sadness has passed from the dwelling away,
    And quiet serenity brightens the day: 
    With innocent prattle, her toils to beguile,
    In the midst of her children, the mother must smile. 
    With matronly cares,—­those relentless demands
    On the strength of her heart and the skill of her hands,—­
    The hours come tenderly, ceaselessly fraught,
    And leave her small space for the broodings of thought.

    Thank God!—­busy fingers a solace can find,
    To lighten the burden of body or mind;
    And Eden’s old curse proves a blessing instead,—­
    “In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou toil for thy bread.” 
    For the bless’d relief in all labours that lurk,
    Aye, thank Him, unhappy ones,—­thank Him for work!

    Thus Alice engages her thoughts and her powers,
    And industry kindly lends wings to the hours: 
    Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear,
    And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,—­
    Half shame and half passion;—­what would she not dare
    Her fervid compatriots’ struggles to share? 
    It irks her,—­the weakness of womanhood then,—­
    Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men!

    She feels the hot blood of the nation beat high;
    With rapture she catches the rallying cry: 
    From mountain and valley and hamlet they come! 
    On every side echoes the roll of the drum. 
    A people as firm, as united, as bold,
    As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold,
    Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might,
    And swear on their altars to die for the right!

    The clangor of muskets,—­the flashing of steel,—­
    The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,—­
    The waving of banners,—­the resonant tramp
    Of marching battalions,—­the fiery stamp
    Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,—­
    The blast of the bugle,—­the hurry, the shout,—­
    The terrible energy, eager and wild,
    That lights up the face of man, woman and child,—­
    That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers;
    Did ever we dream that such times would be ours?

    One thought is absorbing, with giant control,—­
    With deadliest earnest, the national soul:—­
    “The right of self-government, crown of our pride,—­
    Right, bought with the sacredest blood,—­is denied! 
    Shall we tamely resign what our enemy craves? 
    No! martyrs we may be!—­we cannot be slaves!”
    Fair women who naught but indulgence have seen,
    Who never have learned what denial could mean,—­