earlier days, and her face brightening beneath his fond gaze, as an April landscape deepens in beauty when the sun breaks through the the clouds, and sends his bright rays down to bid the flowers raise their heads, and to dry up the shining drops which are bowing them down to earth; now weeping as the thought steals over her mind, that the home of her childhood is no longer hers, and that the sweet dreams of youth, though never forgotten, will be the less often remembered when the old ivy-bush, or the shady bower is no more seen; when the bark of the old and faithful dog is no longer heard, or the respectful, yet free and affectionate greeting of a longtried and trusty servant, has become a recollection of the past, instead of an oft-passing event of the present.

The sunshine and the showers of April have often been compared to the smiles and tears of woman; and not unaptly, for as the bright sunlight chases away the gloom with which a heavy cloud had shadowed the green earth, how often will the cheerful smile of a wife, a mother, or a sister, smooth the knitted brow, and drive far off troubled thoughts; for even the most wayward have experienced; that there is a witchery in a kind smile from which they would not escape, even if they could, and which causes a pleasant feeling to come over the heart which nothing else will bring-and when a woman weeps in sympathy, who would be without her tears? they fall not for herself, but like an April shower on the budding loveliness of Spring, to revive a kindly feeling, deep sorrow may have deadened; or to water an unprolific seed in some dry ground, which lay dormant while the noonday sun was shining, and shewed no young green leaves; no

fair bud or opening blossom, and thus do its part towards beautifying this present scene, until when sunlight was departing, and the shadows lengthened and prevailed, the shower of sympathy fell, and did its glorious work.

April, not only brings with her, beauties that arrest and delight the eye, but melody sweet, clear, powerful and thrilling fills the groves at night; melody so rich, that the listener can scarcely believe that a thing of earth can send forth such notes; and wonders, if such is the music of the Nightingale, and such its wondrous powers, what must be the choral songs of Heaven-if such sounds as proceed from the little throat of Spring's sweet midnight warbler, are permitted to enchant the ears of men, what will be the melody heard when the Angels of God sweep the strings of celestial harps, for the children of earth who are redeemed by the blood of the Lamb, and stand without fault before the throne of God.

Delightful is it to wander forth into some old dreary wood, on one of April's mild nights, to listen to the music of the Nightingale, or to walk abroad when the sun is up, and a light gale playing among the trees, and mark the early flowers, which fashioned according to the season they are to adorn and beautify, are half concealed among sheltering leaves, and lying so close to their nursing mother Earth, that the fresh breeze sweeps over them harmless; or if they are raised a little from her, their petals rise from stems so slender, that they yield and bend before a breath of air, as the true Christian bows before a chastening storm, but to rise the better and the brighter, when it has passed away-but, all-lovely as thou art young April we must leave thee; and leave thee too, when the

E

Thou too,

flowers we have culled, and the dreams we have dreamed, and the lessons we have learned with thy blue sky above us, have made us love thee more than ever. wilt fly from us even while gazing upon thy beauties; wisely teaching us, to linger not on our flowery path, to remember, that there are thorns among the roses, and that we must but gaze in passing on things glorious indeed, but only types and shadows of the more glorious ones we shall find in that land, which the eye of Faith alone can faintly, but yet clearly see; where Angels sing of

*

*

* "Thee, author of all being,
Fountain of light, Thyself invisible

Amidst the glorious brightness where Thou sitt'st
Throned inaccessible, but when Thou shadest
The full blaze of Thy beams, and through a cloud
Drawn round about Thee like a radiant shrine,
Dark with excessive bright Thy skirts appear,
Yet dazzle Heaven, Thy brightest seraphin
Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes."*

* Milton.

May.

'TIS May!-The Spirit of Beauty is abroad, rousing us from our slumbers, and whispering,

"Awake; the morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove,
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
How Nature paints her colours, how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet." *

Queen of the year! we greet thee; thou livest not in marble palaces with gilded domes, attired in gorgeous robes, and decked with jewels; and accessible only to the great and mighty of the earth; but with a loveliness. all thine own thou pervadest all Nature and garlanded with thy thousand blossoms fashioned by the great Divinity, thou dost linger by the poor man's dwelling, gladdening with a fragrance never wafted into the noble hall of the city Aristocrat, the contented inhabitants of the thatched cottage. Thy canopy is the blue of

* Milton.

Heaven; thy diadem is studded with the stars of the Omnipotent Architect of the universe; thyself, ideal and imaginary, but a portion of Time, a thing invisible, yet real, rendering thyself present to us by the beauties which ever accompany thee; robed in sunlight and wreathed with flowers, thou comest breathing perfume, and filling the air with melody.

A holy and beautiful feeling is it that makes us reverence Nature, and well nigh worship her beauties; for love for things created, naturally leads to adoration of the Creator, and we exclaim in the sublime language of Milton,

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens

To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these Thy lowest works; yet these declare

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine."

Sweet May thy very name brings thrilling, pleasant memories of the past, and for a time fixes them so firmly in the mind, that we live in imagination in another age, when kings and princes forgot state and royalty to bask in the sunshine of May, and join their loving subjects round the May-pole, decked by the village maidens with the golden wreaths of the laburnum, and crowned with all the glories of May. Then, perchance, Fancy will lead us, from the scene of revelry and merriment, o'er a rustic stile; and following in imagination the steps of some young man and maiden, we may hear him whispering, that the