And tell me whence cometh, my beautiful Spring,
Each star of the earth, each odorous thing,

These white-ruffled daisies with golden-dipped eyes,
These buttercups gleaming like summer-lit skies,
These violets adorned with rich purple and blue,
These primroses fragrant and innocent too;
And lastly, the sweetest and richest, I ween,

Of all thy fair daughters, my beautiful Spring, The buddings that stud all thy pathways with green,

Say, where were they gathered to shake from

thy wing?

AN APRIL MEMORY.

'Twas a lovely time! an image of bliss Was pictured upon the earth;

Away on the hills young Spring was seen,

Tipping the buds with virgin green,

While Music tripped down the slopes between,

In fellowship with Mirth.

Far up on high the great Sun walked,

In stately grandeur proud;

While the Moon from the bright blue April sky

Peeped from her noonday throne on high,

Like a softened beam in a maiden's eye,

Or a shred of pearly cloud.

And where but late the lightnings flashed,
And thunder drove his car,

Higher than might-winged eagles stray,

A lark poured forth a melodious lay,
As he trembling hung by a golden ray-

A musical noonday star.

Down where the fairy-winged zephyrs sport
With butterfly, flower, and bee,

A brooklet, in search of her ocean love,

Sang the same notes as the lark above,

As she danced along through the chequered grove,

Seeking her native sea.

The sea-gulls had left their rock-built home,

And billow-beaten strand,

And, trooping away from the rocking sea,

Went circling up most joyously,

Laughing aloud in their boisterous glee,

A merry-making band.

Away in the forest, birds talked of love,

And insects whispered bliss ;

For the robin, the finch, and the tiny wren,

Had chosen their little ladies then,

And the honey-bee stole through the fragrant glen,

In search of a violet's kiss.

And yet 'twas a time when the young year weeps—

For gay things weep, you know;

When from their cloud-lids in the skies,

Big drops roll out from their azure eyes,
Tinging the heavens with rainbow dyes,
And pearling the earth below.

And there were other eyes that wept,
And owned deep feeling's power:

Eyes that had gazed upon that scene,
Its gorse-crowned banks with burnished sheen,
Its blue-bells bright, as they peeped between,
Rich as the golden hour.

'Twas an emigrant, leaving his island home

For far Columbia's shore,

Who halted awhile where he used to play,
And knelt by a primrose group to pray,
Then tearfully turned his head away,

From scenes he should see no more.

I learnt there is no bright thing of joy,
But hath its time of woe;

The smiling babe its tears will shed,

The bride with her orange-bloom round her head;

Yea, every joy a grief must wed,

Like the cloud the radiant bow.

MAY.

HERE she comes, the bonnie May,
Sportive as a lamb at play,

Beauteous as in days of yore,

Welcome to the rich and poor;

Nought is gloomy, sad, or drear,
All is gladness everywhere.
Church's porch and castle-way
Boast their sprigs of living May;

Village lads are up betimes,

Waiting not for morning chimes,

Leaving each his smoking home,

Through the fresh green woods to roam.

See them one by one return,

Raptures in their bright eyes burn,

As the branch is borne along

To the tune of ancient song,

This the burthen of their lay,

"Here she comes, the First of May."

Now their little hands begin,

'Mid the shouts and merry din,