Meekly the flower-spirits hold
Their cups of silver and of gold,-
Those delicate children of the sun,-
As if their sire for them had spun
Their robes - the lily's virgin hue,

-
The regal rose's crimson dye,
The violet's celestial blue,
That, clad in beauty, they might woo

The rain god, sweeping through the sky,
To fill their vessels with his precious dew.
See the transparent nectar swell,

Curving upon the brim !
How far behind art's best essays !

How poor Etruscan skill,
Seen and admired in far-famed vase,

Or urn with sculptured rim!
Art imitates with feeble lines
The forms that Nature's hand designs.

LUNT.

SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

The rain is o’er. — How dense and bright

Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,

Contrasting with the dark blue sky! In grateful silence earth receives

The general blessing; fresh and fair,

Each flower expands its little leaves,

As glad the common joy to share.
The softened sunbeams pour around

A fairy light, uncertain, pale ;
The wind blows cool; the scented ground

Is breathing odors on the gale.
Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,

Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest to gaze below awhile,

Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth ;—from off the scene

Its floating veil of mist is flung; And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on Nature,—yet the same

Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came

Fresh in her youth from God's own hand. Hear the rich music of that voice,

Which sounds from all, below, above; She calls her children to rejoice,

And round them throws her arms of love. Drink in her influence; - low-born care,

-
And all the train of mean desire
Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And mid this living light expire.

NORTON. APRIL DAY.

All day the low-hung clouds have dropt

Their garnered fullness down;
All day that soft, grey mist hath wrapt

Hill, valley, grove and town.
There has not been a sound to-day

To break the calm of nature ;
Nor motion, I might almost say,

Of life or living creature ;
Of waving boughs, or warbling bird,

Or cattle faintly lowing: -
I could have half believed I heard

The leaves and blossoms growing.
I stood to hear - I love it well

The rain's continuous sound;
Small drops, but thick and fast, they fell

Down straight into the ground.
For leafy thickness is not yet

Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set

With shoots of tender green. Sure, since I looked at early morn,

Those honeysuckle buds Have swelled to double growth; that thorn

Hath put forth larger studs.

That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,
The milk-white flowers revealing;
Even now, upon my senses first

Methinks their sweets are stealing.

The very earth, the steamy air,
Are all with fragrance rife;
And grace and beauty every where
Are flushing into life.

Down, down they come- -those fruitful stores! Those earth-rejoicing drops!

A momentary deluge pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops.

And ere the dimples on the stream
Have circled out of sight,

Lo! from the west, a parting gleam
Breaks forth, of amber light.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

HYMN TO THE MOON.

REFULGENT pilgrim of the sky,

Beneath thy march, within thy sight, What varied realms outstretching lie!

Here landscape rich with glory bright; There lonely wastes of utter blight; The nightingale, upon the bough

Of cypress, here her song is pouring

And there, begirt with mounts of snow,

For food the famished bear is roaming.

What marvel that the spirits high

Of eastern climes and ancient days, Should hail thee as a deity,

And altars to thine honor raise !

So lovely wert thou to the gaze Of shepherds on Chaldean hills,

When summer flowers around were springing, And when to thee a thousand rills

Throughout the quiet night were singing.

And lo! the dwarfish Laplander,

Far from his solitary home, Dismayed beholds the evening star,

While many a mile remains to roam ;

Thou lightest up the eastern dome, And, in his deer-drawn chariot, he

Is hurled along the icy river ; And leaps his sunken heart to see

The light in his own casement quiver.

Nor beautiful the less art thou,

When ocean's gentlest breezes fan, With gelid wing, the feverish glow

That daylight sheds on Hindostan.

There, on the glittering haunts of man, And on the amaranthine bowers,

The glory of thy smile reposes ;