MAY MORNING.

OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her

The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose

Hail, beauteous May! that doth inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
JOHN MILTON.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

'HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of
the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood

In orighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of

ours.

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow :

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home

no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:

In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so

brief;

Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

NOVEMBER.

HE mellow year is hasting to its close The little birds have almost sung their last, Their small notes twitter in the dreary blastThat shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows. In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define; And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

W

WHAT THE WINDS BRING.

HICH is the wind that brings the cold?
The north-wind, Freddy, and all the snow:
And the sheep will scamper into the fold
When the north begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the heat?
The south-wind, Katy; and corn will grow,
And peaches redden for you to eat,

When the south begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the rain?

The east-wind, Arty; and farmers know That cows come shivering up the lane,

When the east begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the flowers?
The west-wind, Bessy; and soft and low
The birdies sing in the summer hours
When the west begins to blow.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN,

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north-wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild world
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs, and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

IT SNOWS.

T snows!" cries the schoolboy-"Hurrah!" and his shout

Is ringing through the parlor and hall, While swift as the wing of a swallow, he'

out,

And his playmates have answered his call:
It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy-
Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow,

Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow;

Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, While health and the riches of nature are theirs. "It snows!" sighs the imbecile—“Ah!” and his breath

Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;
While from the pale aspect of nature in death,
He turns to the blaze of his grate :
And nearer, and nearer, his soft-cushioned chair
Is wheeled tow'rds the life-giving flame-
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame:
Oh, small is the pleasure existence can give,
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!
"It snows!" cries the traveler-"Ho!" and the
word

Has quickened his steed's lagging pace;
The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard—
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;

For bright through the tempest his own home ap peared

Ay, though leagues intervened. he can see; There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table pre pared,

And his wife with their babes at her knee.

All take your piaces, and make your graces, and let the dance begin.

The girls are beating time to hear the music sound; Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it, and swing your partners round.

Last couple toward the left! all forward! cotillion's through, let's wheel:

First tune the fiddle, then down the middle in old Virginía reel.

Play monkey musk to close, then take the "long chassé,"

While in to supper, supper, supper, the landlord leads the way.

The bells are ringing, the hostlers bringing the cutters

up anew;

The beasts are neighing, too long we're staying, the

night is half way through.

Wrap close the buffalo robes, we're all aboard once more;

Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, away from the tavern door.

So follow, follow, by hill and hollow, and swiftly homeward glide.

What midnight splendor! how warm and tender the maiden by your side!

The sleigh drop far apart, her words are soft and low;

Now, if you love her, love her, love her, 'tis safe to tell her so.

EDMUND CLARENCE Stedman.

CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS.

ROM under the boughs in the snow-clad wood
The merle and the mavis are peeping,
Alike secure from the wind and the flood,
Yet a silent Christmas keeping.

Still happy are they,

And their looks are gay,

And they frisk it from bough to bough;

Since berries bright red

Hang over their head,

A right goodly feast, I trow.

There, under the boughs, in their wintry dress,

Haps many a tender greeting;

Blithe hearts have met, and the soft caress

Hath told the delight of meeting.

Though winter hath come

To his woodland home,

There is mirth with old Christmas cheer,

For 'neath the light snow

Is the fruit-fraught bough,

And each to his love is near.

Yes! under the boughs, scarce seen, nestle they, Those children of song together

N the barn the tenant cock,
Close to partlet perched on high,
Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock :)
Jocund that the morning's nigh.

Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nursed by night, retire:
And the peeping sunbeam now,
Paints with gold the village spire.
Philomel forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night,
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

From the balmy sweets, uncloyed,
(Restless till her task be done),
Now the busy bee's employed
Sipping dew before the sun.

Trickling through the creviced rock,
Where the limpid stream distils,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.
Colin's for the promised corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe), Anxious; whilst the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe.

Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng
On the white emblossomed spray!
Nature's universal song

Echoes to the rising day.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

A CALM EVE.

OOK on these waters, with how soft a kiss They woo the pebbled shore ! then steal away, Like wanton lovers-but to come again, And die in music! There, the bending skies See all their stars—and the beach-loving trees, Osiers and willows, and the watery flowers, That wreathe their pale roots round the ancient stones, Make pictures of themselves!

GEORGE CROLY.