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Anew, or with parental care
Their cradles worn by time repair—
These, this moment, meet my eyes,
Or my charmed ear surprise ;-
Sounds that melt, and sights that seem
To wave o'er winter like a dream.-
Yet, ere in recent brightness born,
The moon shall fill each silver horn,
Clear as now we hail its rays
Where evening's crimson vest decays!
Yet shall thy storm, impetuous March
In blackness cloud the ethereal arch,
Sweep those dewy meads serene,
And rifle all this garden scene!
Then shall we not, my Phebe! seize
Fleeting pleasures such as these!
Scared by winds, and rushing rain,
Will Spring ne'er visit us again?
Are we sure when floods subside,
This amber stream shall dimpling glide,
And again so softly steal

The pastoral tufts to yonder dale?
Haste, let us ravish, ere it fly,

Bliss so fugitive and coy;

Muse on each colour's opening glow,

Trace the blossoms as they blow;

Listen to the choral grove,

And drink the soul of life and love.

POLWHELE.

MARCH.

SOME hither, come hither, and view the face
Of Nature, enrobed in her vernal grace.

By the hedgerow wayside flowers are springing

On the budding elms the birds are singing;

And up—up—up to the gates of heaven

Mounts the lark, on the wings of her rapture driven ;
The voice of the streamlet is fresh and loud;
On the sky there is not a speck of cloud;
Come hither, come hither, and join with me
In the season's delightful jubilee !

Haste out of doors-from the pastoral mount
The isles of ocean thine eye may count-
From coast to coast, and from town to town,
You can see the white sails gleaming down,
Like monstrous water-birds, which fling
The golden light from each snowy wing;
And the chimneyed steam-boat tossing high
Its volumed smoke to the waste of sky:
While you note in foam on the yellow beach,
The tiny billows each chasing each,
Then melting like cloudlets in the sky,
Or time in the sea of eternity!

Why tarry at home?—the swarms of air
Are about-and o'erhead-and everywhere—
The little moth opens its silken wings,
And from right to left like a blossom flings,
And from side to side like a thistle seed,
Uplifted by winds from September mead :
The midge and the fly from their long dull sleep
Venture again on the light to peep,
Over lake and land abroad they flee,

Filling air with their murmuring ecstasy:

The hare leaps up from his brushwood bed,
And limps and turns its timid head;
The partridge whirs from the glade; the mole
Pops out from the earth its wintry hole;
And the perking squirrel's small nose you see
From the fungous nook of its own beach tree.
Come, hasten ye thither-our garden bowers
Are greeen with the promise of budding flowers-
The crocus, and Spring's first messenger,
The fairy snowdrop, are blooming here;

The taper-leafed tulip is sprouting up,
The hyacinth speaks of its purple cup;
The jonquil boasteth, Ere few weeks run,
My golden sun-let I'll show the sun;
The gillyflower shoots its stem on high,
And peeps on heaven with its pinky eye;
Primroses, an iris-hued multitude;

By the kissing winds are wooing and wooed;
While the wall-flower threatens, with bursting bud,
To darken its blossoms with winter's blood.
Come hither, come hither, and mark how swell
The fruit-buds of the jargonelle;

On its yet but leaflet greening boughs
The apricot open its blossom throws;
The delicate peach-tree's branches run
O'er the warm wall glad to feel the sun:

And the cherry proclaims of cloudless weather,
When its fruit and the blackbirds will toy together:
See, the gooseberry bushes their riches show,
And the currant bush hangs its leaves below,
And the damp-loving rasp saith, I'll win your praise
With my grateful coolness on harvest days.
Come along, come along, and guess with me
How fair, and how fruitful the year shall be
Look into the pasture grounds o'er the pale,
And behold the foal with its switching tail;
About and abroad in its mirth it flies,
With its long black forelocks about its eyes,
Or bends its neck down with a stretch,
The daisy's earliest flower to reach.
See, as on by the hawthorn fence we pass,
How the sheep are nibbling the tender grass,
Or holding their heads to the sunny ray,
As if their hearts, like its smile, were gay;
While the chattering sparrows, in and out,
Fly the shrubs, and trees, and roofs about;
And sooty rooks, loudly cawing, roam

With sticks and straws to their woodland home.—

Out upon indoor cares-rejoice

In the thrill of Nature's bewitching voice!
The finger of God hath touched the sky,
And the clouds, like a vanquished army, fly,
Leaving a rich, wide azure bow,

O'erspanning the works of his hand below;
The finger of God hath touched the earth,
And it starts from slumber in smiling mirth;
Behold it awake in the bird and bee,

In the springing flower, and the sprouting tree,
And the leaping trout, and the lapsing stream,
From the south wind soft, and the warm sunbeam :--
From the sward beneath, and the boughs above,
Come the scent of flowers, and the sounds of love:
Then haste thee hither, and join thy voice
With a world's which shouts, "Rejoice! Rejoice!"

MOIR.

THE LITTLE BIRD.

SOME, tell me now, sweet little bird,
Who decked thy wings with gold?
Who fashioned so thy tiny form,

And bade thy wings unfold?

Who taught thee such enchanting power,
To soothe this aching heart;

And, with thy note of harmony,
To mock the reach of art?

Thou fly'st away! who bade thee soar?
Who bade thee seek the sky,

And wander through yon silver cloud,
A speck to mortal eye?

Oh, had I but thy wings, sweet Bird!
I'd mount where angels be,

And leave behind this world of sin,
A little thing like thee;

I'd mount where golden harps proclaim

Emmanuel's dying love,

And gladly hail the eternal rest

Of that pure realm above.

JOHN PRINGLE.

ANSWER.

Y wings with gold by Him were tinged,
Who framed the golden spheres;

emo He gave me form, who works unchanged

Amidst the change of years.

He taught me song, who heaven's own lyre
Has strung to sound his praise;

Who gave the seraph words of fire,
And thee, still warmer lays.

He bade me fly who taught thy soul
To shoot through time and space,
And bound o'er all the orbs that roll,
To meet the Sun of grace.

Still seek that Sun, and thou shalt mount
Beyond my utmost flight;

And sport and bask thee at the fount
Of pure ethereal light.

On earth a day, a little day,

An exile thou shalt mourn;

But soon the exile called away,
Shall home in peace return.

Whilst I, "a little thing," shall die,
To thee shall rest be given,
Soft as the music of the sky,
Long as the years of heaven.

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