THE SEASONS.

THE Seasons are my friends, companions dear!
Hale Winter will I tend with constant feet,
When over wold and desert, lake and mere,

He sails triumphant in a rack of sleet,
With his rude joy the russet earth to greet,
Pinching the tiny brook and infant ferry ;

And I will hear him on his mountain-seat, Shouting his boisterous carol free and merry, Crown'd with a Christmas-wreath of crimson holly-berry.

Young Spring will I encounter, coy and arch,
When in her humid scarf she leaves the hills,
The dewy cheek dried by the winds of March,
To set the pebbly music of the rills,
As yet scarce freed from stubborn icicles :
And Summer shall entice me once again,
Ere yet the light her golden dew distils,
To intercept the morning on the plain,
And see Dan Phoebus slowly tend his drowsy wain.

But, pensive Autumn, most with thee I love,
When the wrung peasant's anxious toil is done,
Among thy bound and golden sheaves to rove,
And glean the harvest of a setting sun,
From the pure mellowing fields of ether won;
And in some sloping meadow, musing sit,
Till Vesper rising slowly, widow'd nun,
Reads whisperingly, her radiant lamp new-lit,
The gospel of the stars, great Nature's holy writ!

CHARLES WHitehead.

A DAY IN AUTUMN.

THERE was not, on that day, a speck to stain
The azure heaven; the blessed Sun, alone,
In unapproachable divinity,

Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light.
How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky,
The billows heave! one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst,
Embath'd in emerald glory. All the flocks
Of Ocean are abroad: like floating foam,
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves;
With long protruded neck the cormorants
Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.
It was a day that sent into the heart

A Summer feeling: even the insect swarms
From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth,
To sport through one day of existence more;
The solitary primrose on the bank
Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn
Its bleak autumnal birth; the Rocks and Shores,
The Forest, and the everlasting Hills,

Smiled in that joyful Sunshine,-they partook
The universal blessing.

TO A THRUSH.

SWEET Thrush! whose wild untutor'd strain

Salutes the opening year,
Renew those melting notes again,
And soothe my ravish'd ear.

Though in no gaudy plumage dress'd,
With glowing colours bright,
Nor gold, nor scarlet, on thy breast
Attracts our wondering sight:

Yet not the pheasant, or the jay,
Thy brothers of the grove,
Can boast superior worth to thee,
Or sooner claim our love.

How could we transient beauty prize

Above melodious art!

Their plumage may seduce our eyes,
Thy song affects our heart.

While evening spreads her shadowy veil,

With pensive steps I'll stray,

And soft on tiptoe gently steal
Beneath thy favourite spray.

Thy charming strain shall doubly please,
And more my bosom move,

Since Innocence attunes those lays

Inspir'd by Joy and Love.

CATHARINE HOOD.

THE LEGACY OF THE ROSES.*

OH! plant them above me, the soft, and the bright,
The touched with sunset's crimson light,

The warm with the earliest breath of Spring,

The sweet with the sweep of the West wind's wing!
Let the green bough and the red leaf wave-
Plant the glad Rose-tree upon my grave.

Why should the mournful willow weep,
O'er the quiet rest of a dreamless sleep-
Weep for life with its toil and care,
Its crime to shun, and its sorrow to bear?
Let tears and the signs of tears be shed
Over the living not over the dead!

Plant not the cypress, nor yet the yew,
Too heavy their shadow, too gloomy their hue :
For one who is sleeping in faith and in love,
With a hope that is treasur'd in heaven above:
In a holy trust are my ashes laid-

Cast ye no darkness, throw ye no shade.

Plant the green sod with the crimson rose,—

Let my friends rejoice o'er my calm repose;
Let my memory be like the odours they shed,
My hopes like their promise of early red;

Let strangers too, share in their breath and their bloom-
Plant ye the bright roses o'er my tomb.

MISS LANDON.

* Mr. Croker says, "that a person, who died at Barnes left an annual sum to be expended in rose-trees which were to be planted on his grave." This singular legacy gave rise to these pleasing lines.

THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE.

Two lovely little children went, when Summer was in prime, Into a garden beautiful, beneath a southern clime;

A brother and a sister-twins, and each to each most dear; Nor was the mother of these babes beset with any fear.

And brightly shone the Summer sun upon that gentle pair, Who pluck'd each gaudy flower that grew in rich profusion there;

Or chas'd the idle butterflies, those fair, defenceless things, That round them tantalizing danc'd upon their silken wings.

With many a flower which they had pluck'd, a mimic grove they made,

But wonder'd, when they came again, they had so soon decayed:

And grieving, each the other ask'd, why all the roses red, Which freshly bloom'd an hour before, now drooping hung their head?

'Twas in that season of the year when on the blooming earth Each flower and plant, and shrub and tree, to all their fruits gave birth;

And 'mid them all, and most expos'd to catch the passing view,

With purple flowers and berries red, the Deadly Nightshade grew!

Up rose the little boy and ran, upon the bush to gaze,

And then his sister follow'd quick, and both were in amaze, For berries half so beautiful they ne'er before had seen,

So forth he rashly stretch'd his hand among the branches

green.