Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield;

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone,
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like

wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection

We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE RAINY DAY.

HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary
The vine still clings to the mouldering
wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.

No hay pájaros en los nidos de antaño.

HE sun is bright,

Spanish Proverb.

the air is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear The bluebird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,

It seems an outlet from the sky,

Where waiting till the west-wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new; the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves;
There are no birds in last year's nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight!
And learn from the soft heavens above
The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For O, it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest ;
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

INDER the spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,