Lay all around; the ruin'd bark sunk down,
Her pilot's eye still upward turn’d to heaven;
The waters gather'd o'er, and not a wreck
Was left to tell of all that once had been.

The vision changed once more

A sadden'd voice Bore to mine ear this moral, 'Such is life!'

F

Sweet starry wreath that deck'st my bower
With many a golden vested flower,
I hail with joy the coming hour,

When thy fresh bloom
Shall o'er me shed its balmy power

In rich perfume.

I watch the breeze that softly plays
Among thy green disheveld sprays,
And catch the murmur as it strays

Along the wind,
Till many a thought of other days

Comes o'er my mind.

Since first thy mantling vine was spread
In gay luxuriance o'er my head,
How oft have sorrow's dews been shed

In nightly showers!

How many hopes have bloom'd and fled

Among thy flowers !

Yet still, when spring renews thy pride,
And freshening breezes o’er thee glide,
I feel the sympathetic tide

Of pleasure flow!
And joys that fate has long denied

Within me glow.

LAYS OF THE SEASONS.

BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

SPRING.

Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
This is the first day of May-
The sun is rejoicing alone in heaven;
The clouds have all hurried away.
Down in the meadow the blossoms are waking,
Light on their twigs the young leaves are shaking;
Round the warm knolls the lambs are a-leaping,
The colt from his fold o'er the pasture is sweeping;
And on the bright lake the little waves break,
For there the cool west is at play.
Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
This is the first day of May.

Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
Lose not so happy a day-

The maidens are pranking their locks with flowers,
And donning their proudest array.
Over the mountains the south wind is rolling,
And tossing its forest in billows;
Through orchard and vineyard and garden strolling,
And whispering among

the

green willows. Then mount the plumed bonnet, with true love knots

on it,
Haste hither!-0! how can ye stay!
Come to my festival! Come to my festival !
This is the first day of May.

SUMMER.

Golden is the harvest field,
Bright the sky above,
And its orb a burning shield
On the arm of Jove;
Hot the wearied reaper toils
Till the day is done,
And the flashing ocean boils
Round the setting sun.
O! some cool, some midnight cave
By the rushing river,
There my beating pulse to lave,
Sleep and dream for ever.

All are now in serious strife
Gathering in their grain;