SPRING.

I. P. Willis.

THE Spring is here-the delicate footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;

And with it comes a thirst to be away

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours, A feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things.

We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods.
And nature that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broodsYet even there a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June,

And the light whisper as their edges meetStrange that they fill not with their tranquil

tone

The spirit walking in their midst alone.

There's no contentment in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream;

We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;

Bird-like the imprisoned soul will lift its eye, And pine till it is hooded from the sky.

MARCH.

Britton.

HE stands like a warder stout and strong,
In the open gate of the year,
He bloweth loud, and he bloweth long
A blast on the horn in his hands;
And it rolleth shrilly and clear,

Through the amber caves low under the waves,

And it rolleth along the lands.

The sprites of the fruits, and flowers, and leaves, They had long been out at play

With the spirits that rule the mellow sheaves, In the crystalline palaces

In the ether halls, no mortal sees

In the gardens under the day;

But the stirring blast, that clarion cast,
Oh, it broke their holiday!

And they hurry home at their topmost speed,
Flurried and flush'd with the sudden need,
Sprinkling earth as they pass along
With a flood of color, and gush of song-

For the summer is coming to wed the Spring,
And earth on their altar her wealth shall fling,
And the heavens soft odors and breezes bring,
And the hollow heights and the depths shall
ring

With a wild over-gushing of gladdening-
With the tumult and joy of that marrying.

HUMAN LIFE.

Rogers.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have humm'd their noontide lullaby;
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn hall the jests resound.
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now glad at heart the gossips breathe their
prayer,

And crowding stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years and then these sounds shall hail

The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin,
The ale now brewed, in floods of amber shine;
And basking in the chimney's ample blaze,

'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, "'Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled.' And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees

Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round, and old and young, In every cottage porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze and gazing bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, Moves, in her virgin veil the gentle bride. And once, alas! not in a distant hour,

Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers, long black weeds are seen,

And weeping's heard where only joy has been; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

And such is human life; so gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full methinks of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretch'd in the desert round their evening fire,
As any sung of old in hall or bower,

To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour.