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THE SEASONS.

Found in an old periodical.

THE Crocus, in the shrewd March morn,
Thrusts up his saffron spear;
And April dots the sombre thorn
With gems, and loveliest cheer.

Then sleep the seasons, full of might;
While slowly swells the pod,
And rounds the peach, and in the night
The mushroom bursts the sod.

The winter comes: the frozen rut
Is bound with silver bars;
The white drift heaps against the hut;
And night is pierced with stars.

VIOLETS.

A delightful poem by the Rev. JOHN MOULTRIE, who will be remembered by every reader as the author of The Three Sons, which will be found in our first volume.

"UNDER the green hedges, after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow;
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads
Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds."

"Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky,
Down there do the dear little violets lie;

Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been."

Such thy first notes, as of music from heaven,
Child of my heart, when thy years were eleven;
Still, at thirteen, my delight and my pride,
Violet-hearted, forget-me-not-eyed.

Blest be thy birthday!-more bountiful none
Hath in our family calendar shone;

Never was born to us child who hath proved
Sweetlier gifted, more dearly beloved.

Pale is thy forehead, and paler thy cheek,
Weak was thy infancy still thou art weak;
Fragile of body and feeble of limb,—

But thine eyes in the spring-dew of fantasy swim.

Deep in the cells of thy spirit are wrought
Exquisite textures of feeling and thought;
Forth from the depths of thy sensitive heart,
Tears to thine eyelids will bubble and start.

Oft, as thy fingers sweep over the keys,
Melody stirs in thy soul like a breeze;
Till the strong impulse evoke from the chords
Fairy-like music, to fairy-like words.

Oft, as thou walkest in meadow or wood,
Over its treasure thy spirit will brood;
Yearnings of nature, which nought can control,
Blossom and bud in thine innocent soul.

Then, as thou fixest thine eyes on the ground,
Heedless of all that is passing around,

Deaf to their greetings, though cordial and kind,-
Country-folk ask-"Is she right in her mind?"

Right in thy mind?—ay! and right in thy heart,
Loving, and gentle, and pious thou art;
Never bath dearer, more dutiful child,
Grief from the heart of a parent beguiled.

Tenderness, faithfulness, sweetness profound,
Compass and clasp thee about and around;
Others by magic of intellect move,
Thine is the genius of goodness and love.

Use, but abuse not, the blessing of song,
Which from thy tuneful heart dances along;
Force it not-curb it not-free let it flow
Whither the breezes of Nature shall blow.

Seek not, and shun not, the garland of fame,
Keep thyself scathless from praise and from blame;
Care not what outwardly fancy may win,

Fully content with her blessing within.

Only be innocent, artless and good,
Loving of spirit, and gentle of mood;
Fear and serve God with devotion of heart,
So shall He glorify all that thou art.

So, whether vocal or silent thou be,
Song shall be living in, welling from thee;
If not the meed of the poetess thine,
Thou shalt thyself be a poem divine.

HYMN OF THE MORNING.

An excellent translation of a magnificent poem by LAMARTINE. Some passages of lesser beauty are omitted. It is the grandest French composition we have ever read.

WHY on your foaming shallows wanton leap,

Ye waves? Why toss around your pearly wreathes?
Hush'd in their far off caves the breezes sleep,
Nor gentlest zephyr o'er the ocean breathes.
Why wave your heads, ye forests, whence the dawn
Delights the dewy gems to kiss away-
Why squander the night-tears it dotes upon,
Ere you can yield them to the morning ray?
Why lift ye up your bells, ye cumber'd flowers,
Like a sad brow to meet a lover's gaze?
Why waste your fragrance on cold humid hours?
Day claims the precious gift-it is the day's.

Deep treasured in your bloomy cells,
Hoard it to be the breath of morn;
Exhale it where your clustering bells
Serve some proud temple to adorn.
By Heaven with honey'd due sustain❜d-
By day's first passionate beam impregn'd-
Fling not your vagrant sighs abroad,
Earth's incense, they are due to God.

Ye blasts, that lately in capricious flight
Howl'd o'er the deep, or sigh'd along the heath,
But, in your devious path encountering night,
Stood still and held your breath,

Scared by the terrors of his sable brow,
Why wake ye now!

What voice hath pierced to your leaf-curtain❜d nest
Deep in the brake, ye birds, and scared your rest?
Ye feather'd denizens of wave and wood,

And ye who tremble not man's home to share,
Say with what universal sense endued,

Ye load with mingling melody the air :-
Hark, how the concert swells! now throbbingly
It sinks-now swells again-doth pensive nature sigh?

Rich harmonies! the air around us filling,
From wave to wave along the ocean thrilling,
That freight with liquid sweets the breeze's wing-
Bright choristers! that Instinct wakes to sing-
Ye concerts! in whose strain the chirping call
Blends with soft cooing, and the dying fall
Of long low plaintive notes—all musical—
Why lavish thus your sweets? Alas! the ear
Of night, uncharm'd, hears not, and will not hear.

List to the swelling theme

"Day, day is born above;
'Tis life's ethereal flame-

'Tis God's own eye of love!"
Wrapt in night's dismal shade,

How shrinks the face of Heaven!
Now in fantastic braid,

Light mists are o'er it driven,
Storm-clouds for him put off their wrath,
And open wide the glowing breast,
And hail his advent-line his path,
As moves the God confest.
He comes-his courser's tread,
Mid dusky volumes wreathing,
And the air heaves fiery red,

In waves beneath him seething,
Groaning with its pitchy freight
Of night, earth turns to him elate,

The darkness melts before his glance,
The radiant billows joyous dance,
Heaves high the mountain's crest,
All panoplied in gold,

All things in golden splendour drest,
By all the adoring hymn is trolled.
Hark to the swelling theme:

"Lo! day is born above!
'Tis life's ethereal flame,

'Tis God's own eye of love!"

Look, Lord, upon the deep! the morning beam
Wakes up the waters from their stagnant dream,
The ocean, like a glad or loving breast,
Heaves with a pulse that will not be represt,
Yet, like a lover's boding, in its deeps
Of parted night one dark memorial keeps.
Light o'er the burthen'd glebe as flits the blast,
The feathery surface rolls in dimples cast;
Now to its freshening breath the harvest yields,
And deepening furrows trace the yellow fields;
Thus swells into a wave the infant curl,
Behold it first its murmuring length unfurl,
Tinged with the hoarded azure of the deep,
Now, self-involved and melting in mid sweep,
It mocks the eye-now from the unfathom'd breast
Of ocean heaves on high its boiling crest,
Like a tall steed caparison'd for day;

Bright in its foamy mane the sunbeams play,
Each lesser surge absorb'd it makes its own,
Till the gorged despot grimly towers alone;
Now like some time-worn fabric's toppling height,
Or chariot shatter'd in its headlong flight,
Its proud, precarious elevation won,

It rocks; a shiver'd star-a bursten sun,
It falls; and hurling broken splendours round,
In radiant ruin lights the vast profound.

Lord! look upon the earth! tenderly pale,
Strikes the first daybeam on her misty veil;
Slow yields the night, and on the mountain's head,
Like folded mantles, cower the clouds, or shred
By day's impetuous wing, like trophied wreaths,
In the orient flutter to each wind that breathes ;

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