From furrows brown

The green blades shoot, that shall hereafter glow,
'Neath August sun-rays, into molten gold,
And fill our garners with the bounteous store
That crowns man's labor, and rewards his toil.
March, with his stern, grand brow, frowning, yet kind,
Front of a Titan; of imperious will,

King March rides blustering o'er dale and mead,
And with his chastening rule, prepares the way,
For green-robed April, with her showers soft,
The pure warm sunshine, and her opening buds
Of yellow cowslip bells.

And jocund May,

Crowned with white blossoms, scatters in her track
Hawthorns all odorous, pink apple-blooms,
And all the gorgeous beauty of her dower,
That glads our English homes. So in our life,
Our truest joys must be from trial reaped,
And as March winds foreshadow April sun,

Our dross through furnace passing, comes out, - gold

- All The Year Round.

A SAIL ON THE CLOUDS.

THER

HERE'S a beautiful cloud-fleet passing by,
With white sails all unfurled;

Let's take a sail o'er the blue expanse,

And visit the mystery-world.

We'll sail and sail o'er the spacious sea

With the pilot Breeze to steer,

And never come back to the earthland sweet.
For a day and a month and a year.

We'll visit the place where the little dame
Plucks wool from the fleecy clouds,
And weaves it into the snow-white robes
That are sent for the winter shrouds.
We'll sail to the West when the day is done,
And watch while the artist's hand
Is painting the glow in the sunset sky
With gorgeous colors and grand.

And we'll see how he fills his treasure jars
With pigments of brilliant dye,

Where red and yellow and crimson tints

With the royal colors vie.

For these he must use when the harvest moon
Looks down on the ripened sheaves,

And the time has come to brighten the earth
By painting the forest leaves.

We'll watch the sun as his chariot rolls

Far down the horizon's rim,

And he carries the beautiful day along,

And earthland is growing dim.

Then we'll sail to the North where the Major Bear

Is holding his dipper of rain,

And we'll listen to hear how the flowers laugh

As he empties it over the plain.

We'll explore the place where the comet abides
And brushes her hair of gold,

Or plays coquette with the polar star,

Or dances with meteors bold.

Then we'll skim the cream from the milky way,
And make us a choice repast,

And lay us to sleep upon downy beds,

And dream while the night shall last.

Then waking, we'll sail to the reddening East,
Where Morning comes in at the gate,

And watch the sun with his prancing steeds
Ride up to the door in state.

Then again o'er the boundless blue we'll float,
Far off in the ether clear,

And never come back to the earthland sweet,
For a day and a month and a year.

O! the long, slender spears, how they quiver and flash
Where the clouds send their cavalry down!

Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash
Over mountain and river and town:

Thick the battle-drops fall - but they drip not in blood;
The trophy of war is the green, fresh bud:

O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare,
The wells they yawn empty and dry ;

But a rushing of waters is heard in the air,

And a rainbow leaps out in the sky.

Hark! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves,
How they wash the wide pavement, and sweep from the

eaves.

O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane,
The kind drops dance in on the floor;

And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain
On the step by her half-open door;

At the tune on the skylight, far over his head,
Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed.
O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

And away, far from men, where high mountains tower,
The little green mosses rejoice,

And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower,

And the hill-torrents lift up their voice:

And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight

Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the light : O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain,
A single thrush pipes full and sweet,

How days of clear shining will come after rain,

Waving meadows, and thick-growing wheat;

So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears,

Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears:

O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

The Spectator

TRIU

THE RAINBOW.

RIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky,
When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given

For happy spirits to alight,

Betwixt the earth and heaven!

Can all that optics teach unfold

Thy form to please me so,

As when I dreamed of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow?

When science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,

What lovely visions yield their place

To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,

Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth,
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers orth
To watch thy sacred sign!