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The Evy.

(By Bernard Barton, one of the Society of Friends.]

Dost thou not love in the season of spring,

To twine thee a flowery wreath,
And to see the beautiful birch-tree Aling
Its shade on the grass

beneath;
Its glossy leaf, and its silvery stem,
Oh ! dost thou not love to think on them?

And dost thou not love when leaves are greenest,

And summer has just begun, When in the silence of moonlight thou leanest,

Where glistening waters run, To see, by that gentle and peaceful beam, The willow bend down to the sparkling stream ?

And oh! in a lonely autumnal day,

When leaves are changing before thee,
Do not nature's charms as they slowly decay

Spread their own wide influence o'er thee? And hast thou not felt as thou stood'st to gaze The touching lesson such scene displays ?

It should be thus, at an age like thine ;

And it had been thus with me;
When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine

As they never more can be.
Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot,
Perhaps I see beauty, where thou dost not !

Hast thou seen in winter's stormiest day,

The trunk of a blighted oak,
Not dead but sinking in slow decay

Beneath time's resistless stroke;
Round which a luxuriant ivy had grown
And wreath'd it with verdure no longer its own,

Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then

As I, at thy years might do
Pass carelessly by, nor turn'd again

That scathed wreck view.
But now I can draw from that mouldering tree
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me.

O smile not ! nor think it a worthless thing

If it be with instruction fraught,
That which will closest and longest cling

Is alone worth a serious thought.
Should aught be lovely which thus can shed
Grace on the dying and leaves not the dead ?

Now in thy youth, beseech of Him

Who giveth upbraideth not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,

And his love be unforgot; And thy God, in the darkest of days will be Greenness and beauty and strength to thee !

The Seasons.

I've seen the beauteous flowers of Spring

Bud, blossom, and decay ;
I've heard the sweetest warblers sing,

And watch'd them flit away.
I've seen enchanting Summer rise,

Fresh from her rosy bed,
And scatter, through the humid skies,

Rich fragrance as she fled :-
But, ah ! she too, so fair, so gay,
In smiles and blushes pass'd away.

I've seen, when yellow Autumn, too,

Pour'd from his plenteous horn
Fruits of each varied form and hue,

And floods of ripen'd corn.
While over Nature's changing face,

A thousand varying dies

Have breath'd inimitable grace,

And mimick'd western skies :But, ah ! I've seen his fruits decay, And Autumn, too, has pass'd away.

And now dread Winter (stormy sire !)

Begins his cheerless reign, And the rude heralds of his ire

Wild bluster o’er the plain :
Lock'd in his cold and chilling arms

Creation seems to die;
And wither'd are her blooming charms,

When gaz'd on by his eye !
Yet Winter shall not always stay,
Stern Winter too, shall pass away.

Nor shall life's dark and wintry storm

Eternally endure :
Death shall dissolve this mortal form,

And lead to scenes more pure,
Where changing seasons are not known,

Where storms can never come :-
That place the Christian calls his own,

His best inheritance, his home,
Most priz'd because 'twill ne'er decay :
His Spring shall never pass away.

PAOLINA.

The Storm Calmed.

“ BUT the men marvelled, saying, What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him!"— Matt, viii. 27.

'Tis darkness all !—No star appears

Upon the dusky brow of night;
No moon the anxious watcher cheers,

Nor charms him with her gentle light:
While one small ship, its sails all riven,
Abides the furious blasts of heaven.

Loud, and more loud, the billows roar,

And dash their white foam o'er the deck;
The storm is fiercer than before ;

And soon that ship must be a wreck!
But who is this that lies asleep,
While all beside in anguish weep?

The stranger wakes from his repose,

And eyes the storm with look serene ; He speaks,-the listening water flows

Calm as in Eden's peaceful scene ! The winds his high commands obey, And in soft whispers die away.

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