Febrú,ǎry bears the bier,

March with grief dòth howl and rave, And April weeps - - but, o ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.

Shelley.

The Seasons' Chänges.

Down with rosemary and bays,
Down with the mistletoe;
Instead of holly, now uprai-se
The greener box for show.

The holly hitherto did sway;
Let box now dominee.r,
Until the dancing Easter-day,

Or Easter eve appear.

Then youthful box, which now dòth grace
Your houses tó renew,

Grown ōld, surrender must his plaçe

Unto the crisped yew.

When yew is out, then birch còmes in,

And many flowers besi.de,

Both of a fresh and frägrant kin,

Tó honour Whitsuntide.

Green rushes then, and sweetest bents,
With cooler oaken boughs,

Còme in for còmely ornaments,
Tó re,adorn the house.

Thus times dó shift; each thing his turn dòes hōld; New things succeed as former things grow old.

Herrick.

The Còming of Spring.

It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,
The redbreast sings from the tâll larch
That stands beside our door.

Thère is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield Tó the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is dòne, Make häste, yoúr morning task resîgn; Còme forth and feel the sun.

Edward will còme with yoú; and pray
Pút on with speed your woodland dress:
And bring no bóok; for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regûlate

Our living călendar:

We from tó-day, my friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Lòve, now an universal birth,

From heart tó heart is stealing

From earth tó man, from man tó earth
-It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason:

Our minds will drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make
Which they shall long obey::
We for the year tó còme may take
Our temper from tó-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, abò.ve,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.

Then còme, my sister! còme, I pray,

With speed pút on yoúr wóodland dress:
And bring no bóok; for this one day

We'll give to idleness.

Wordsworth.

On Hearing a Thrush sing in Jănû ǎry.

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See aged winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blŷthe cărol clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear

Sits meek Content with light una-nxiòus heart, Welcomes the răpid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose brîght sun now gilds the ori,ent skies!

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth coúld never give nor take away.!

Yet còme, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee.

I'll share.

Burns.

March.

The stormy March is còme at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy mònth! in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds ǎre loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcòme mònth to me.

For thou to northern lands again

The glad and glori,òus sun dòst bring And thou hast joined the gentle train And wêar'st the gentle name of Spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
Smiles many a long bright sunny day,
When the changed winds åre soft and wârm
And Heaven púts on the blue of May.

Then sing along the gushing rills,

And the full springs, from frost set free,

That, brightly leaping down the hills,
Åre just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
But in thy sternest frown abi des
A lóok of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,

When the wide bloom on earth that lies
Seems of a brighter world than ours.

William C. Bry,ant.

Gardens.

The love of gardens and gardening appears to be âlmōst exclusively confined to the English, and is parta-ken of by the poor as well as by the rich. Nòthing can be prettier than the gardens attached to the thatched cottages of Devonshire. They ǎre frequently tó be seen on the side and oftener at the bottom of a hill, down which a narrow road leads tó a rude singlearched stone bridge. Here a shallow stream may be seen flowing răpidly, which now and then stickles, tó use a Devonshire phrase, over a pavement of pebbles or rag-stone. A little rill descends by the side of the lake, and close to the hedge of the cottage, which is approached by a brôad stepping-stone over the rill, and beyond it is a gate made of ròugh sticks, which leads to the cottage. At a short distance, an excavation has been cut out of the bank, and paved round with ròugħ stones, intó which the wâter fînds its way, clear and sparkling. This is the cottager's well. His garden is gay with flowers. His bees ǎre placed on each side of a window surrounded with honeysuckles