And when the twilight's silvery flame,
Besprent with star-beams, o'er ye came,
Ye put the ethereal lights to shame.

But now ye are not what ye were,
Tho' lovely still, and rich and rare,
And of the things of earth most fair :

And when your urns are flowing bright,
With May-dew, and May-morning light,
Spirits of spring! we're ravished quite.

Our hearts, when looking on ye sigh,
With prelibations pure and high,
And ostents from a far-off sky!

So lovely, gentle, and so pure,

O'er man's soul holding such sweet lure, Your fragrance should for aye endure. But ye must wither and decayAnd fade like cherished things away; Frail emblems of hope's parting day. A little while ye scent the skies, Then perish 'midst delicious sighs; So beauty blushes, blooms, and dies! But oh! ye gems of sun and flowers, Ye censers of the summer hours; I love ye all, my mournful flowers. Abbey Cottage, near Leek, Staffordshire.

The flow'rs their balm are breathing

Like incense from an urn,

And the rich winds with them wreathing,-
Why wilt thou not return?

There's the music of sweet voices
Beneath thy favorite tree,
And each merry child rejoices
When we speak to him of thee.
The sapphire streams are falling
On the verdant sunny ground,
Thy absent steps recalling

With glad and cheerful sound.

And Spring has waked the roses
With smiles from azure skies,
And many a flow'r uncloses
Its bosom to thine eyes.

We have oft invoked thy coming,
Thy familiar voice to greet,
When the festal bee rose humming
O'er the violets at our feet.

Thou wert the star which guided
Peace and beauty to our hearth,
But our home is now divided

From thy chaste and lively mirth.
Oh! come-the birds are singing
Their joyful hymn around,

And the fragrant winds are bringing
The echo of its sound.

Thou shalt watch the sky assuming

Its purple flush at even,

When golden fields seem blooming
Amid the sunny heaven.

Are not thy feelings haunted,

With the land thou hast resigned?

Cling the lovely and enchanted

Like tendrils to thy mind?

Oh! return-each minstrel-comer-
Fills the air with vocal glee,
And the flow'rs embalm'd by summer,
Are harbingers of thee!

JUNE.

THE WIND.

The wind on the waters! 'tis lovely to me,
I, mark how it ripples, both river and sea,
When the bright sun of summer is setting at eve,
And his beams a deep glow on the clear ocean leave-
When it lies all outstretched, like a motionless lake
In the wind, with a murmur that scarcely would break
The rest of an infant-steals down on the deep,
And kisses, and lulls it to tremulous sleep.

And the wind in the leaves-oh! I love when the day
Of summer is sultrily stealing away,

To see the soft quivering come over the leaves,

And the boughs rise and fall, as the deep ocean heaves;
And I love in the winter to hear the low thrill-
Steal on thro' the gloomy pine boughs on the hill;
And hear the wild moan that comes softly at first,
And to think of how grandly the tempest will burst.
And the wind in the heavens! in the summer midnight,
When it puts the thin clouds to a hurrying flight;
And when in the depths of the soft radiant blue,
The moon and the stars seem as if they fled too,-
And at noontide, to see the dark storm coming on,
When the silent wind hath not a breath or a tone,
Yet still on its heavy wings-beareth the thunder-
Oh! this to the heart, is a rupture and wonder!

The wind on the flowers,-who hath not been stayed
At twilight within some dim sheltering glade,

To search for the blossoms that gave the rich scent;
That into the heart of the wonderer went,

Like the freshness of spring o'er a withering tree-
Like the softness of starlight upon the wild sea?
And who would forget in that moment of pleasure-
The wind was the messenger bearing the treasure?
Sweet wind-over ocean and clouds-tree and flower,
"Tis thine to exert a strong influence and power,
And thou, who in nature's wide range hath a part,
Oh! shalt thou not have too a space in the heart?
Thou hast! there is One who can speak in the breeze,
And whether thou comest o'er sky, grove, or seas:
We feel that His power o'er us too can be,

We know that His spirit is breathing in thee.

M. A. Browne.

EVENING AIR.-It is very well for a poet whose fancy soars too high above the things of earth, not to think of his own health-it is very well, we say, for him to wish to

Sit, and nightly spell

Of every star the sky doth shew,

And every herb that sips the dew;*

or to wander romantically about the woodlands at midnight, like Coleridge, to listen to the summer music

Of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping words all night,

Singeth a quick time; †

but this, though it be poetical and romantic, is most certain to injure the health, and sow the seeds of disease, and perhaps of death, and therefore, we pronounce it to

*Milton's Il Penseroso.

+ Ancient Mariner.

be foolish and crazy. It may be recollected, that Thomson the poet of the Seasons, fell a sacrifice to such night exposure, and hundreds more, who delight in evening walks, and evening parties, have paid a heavy penalty for their pleasure, in form of inflammations, and summer coughs, which have ended in hopeless autumnal consumption.

STREAK-WANE-CLOUDS INDICATING RAIN.During the last summer, as well as in former seasons, we have very frequently remarked, that when the sky was beautifully streaked with the wane-clouds, variously denominated marestail and wind-reels, (Cirrostratus, HOWARD)-that rain almost to a certainty followed within twelve hours; and hence, when the firmament is most pleasing to the eye, and gives token to the inexperienced of continued fine weather, storms are, in the meanwhile gradually brewing to belie the appearance. It reminds us of Æsop's shepherd, who was tempted to become a sailor by the temporary, but treacherous, tranquillity of the sea. In the same way, we have been frequently tempted into a rather distant excursion, by these beautiful wane-clouds, till repeated experience taught us, as it did Solomon, that "beauty is vain," and that they only

"Lur'd to betray, and dazzled to blind."

Parnell.

NEST OF THE PEAHEN.-Like most gallinaceous birds, the peahen makes little provision for the warmth of the eggs during the process of hatching; but in one which we lately examined, two circumstances struck us as well worth recording. Though the eggs were placed on the bare earth, without a blade of grass under them,