We are upon the eve of June; and before the page that we are inditing shall meet the myriad eyes of our world-dispersed readers, the first sun of that lovely month shall have risen upon them. Surpassingly lovely, indeed, to us is June, for she hath not surrendered the charms of Spring, while she takes to herself the delights of early Summer. Verdure has not yet put off her rich green garb and paled in the sun's rays; blossoms still linger upon the foxglove and the nightshade, the mallow and the honey-suckle, the bean and the pea; and with these we see the summer roses in all their hues of red and white, and the delicate briar flowers in the hedges, and the meadow sweet in the deep river-meads, and the silver-margined clouds of summer drifting with the gentlest of winds through the warming sky. But let us chaunt sweet June in quainter words than ours. How goes one of the oldest of English ballads:—

"Summer is ycomen in,

Loud sing cuckoo ;

Groweth seed,

And bloweth mead,

And springeth the weed new."

Or hear the strain of courtlie Master Edmond Spenser in "The Shepherd's Calender" :

"The simple ayre, the gentle warbling winde,
So calm, so coole, as no where else I finde;
The grassie grounde with daintie daysies dight,
The bramble bush, where byrdes of every kinde
To the water's fall their tunes attemper right."

Tomorrow will be the first of June, and we have sped away to the near country that we may be there to greet its coming. But we sought not the sylvan shade alone, for with us travelled a mysterious box, covered with red leather, wherein were imprisoned many and multiform spirits, which had unguardedly committed themselves to our keeping, and with whom we mean to work our spells. And now we look out from our low window upon the dying MAY, and watch the light of evening vanishing amidst fantastic piles of dun clouds, edged with fleecy white, and, here and there, patches of pale orange thronged along the horizon, while above spreads the deep azure, for the moon's lamp shines not in the heavens to-night, but the stars will come out all the brighter that she is away.

Night steals upon us noiselessly, as we muse, and we light our tapers and trim our fire, for the hour is come for our spells. Let us open our box to a solemn 2 x

VOL. XXXVII.-NO. CCXXII.

incantation, and what more fitting can we find than Rare Ben Jonson supplies:

"Break, Phantasy, from thy cave of cloud,

And spread thy purple wings;
Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things.
Create of airy forms a stream,

It must have blood and nought of phlegm;
And though it be a waking dream,
Yet, let it like an odour rise

To all the senses here,

And fall like sleep upon their eyes,

Or music in their ear."

Dear reader, peep in and feast your eyes. There may you see

"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks

In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades

High over arched embower"

our treasured leaves heaped up to the full. Ay, the missives which many a fair, tiny hand indited, and timidly despatched to us, and the bolder poesy of manly spirits-here they are, all safe, though those who sent them may have thought them lost for ever. Let them not fear, however. It is said that all lost things-man's imaginings and fancies, and the thoughts that never had utterance will be found in the morn. So shall all the labours of the brain and offsprings of the intellect, which have passed into our custody, meet the light of day, now or at a fitting time, if they be but worthy. And now let us draw at random the first that comes to our hand. Tis

Love's a youngster joyous,
Eloquently blooming;

Nought can e'er annoy us

Of life's weary glooming

While in young Love trusting; though the merry elf is

Old as Time himself is,

Yet he laughs at Time:

Wouldst thou ever, gentle lady,

Live in beauty's blushing mayday

Trust to Love's mad rhyme.

M. C.

Playful and sparkling, and full of the warmth that beseems a bard who wanders through the citron groves of Lusitania, or by the banks of her vine-clad rivers. The stanzas are gracefully put together, and give fair promise of better things, which we would gladly see hereafter. And now pass we on. Here is something to read at "the witching hour of night."

THE FAIRY WELL.

Forth from a sparkling well
A little stream went bubbling,
But there was some sad spell,
Its bosom ever troubling;
When through the balmy air

No faint breeze had been sighing,
A low moan was heard there,
As of an infant dying.

The ripples on its breast

Were ever in commotion,
And found as rarely rest

As billows on the ocean.
But when the first star shone
From the blue sky at even,
That gently plaintive moan
Ascended thence to Heaven.

Music so soft and sweet,

So mournfully thrilling,
As was this calm retreat
With notes of sorrow filling-
How could it be of earth,

Or share in earthly gladness,
When even its seeming mirth
Partook so much of sadness?

Each evening near that well

A female form was sitting,
Whose beauty did excel

The fairies round her flitting.
She came to breathe her tale

Of love and bitter sorrow,
And from the stars so pale
Some rays of hope to borrow.

The lov'd one of her heart,
Inspir'd by noble duty,
From her was forced to part
In her glad hour of beauty;
And fell he in the field,
Victorious although gory,
His life his country's shield,
His death his country's glory.

The Spirit of that well

Oft view'd the grief-struck maiden,
Whose breast with care did swell,
Whose heart with grief was laden ;

And while a tear would stray
From her soft eyes in pity,

To her at close of day

She sang this plaintive ditty.

"Why, fair one of the earth,
Why mournest thou so wildly,
When, in their happy mirth,

The bright stars shine so mildly;
And even the silken flowers

Are slumbering and sleeping
Around thy garden bowers,
Whilst thou, alas! art weeping?

"Cease, cease, those bitter sighs,
Be not so heavy-hearted,
Thy love to yon clear skies
Before thee has departed;
And should he now look down,
And see his lov'd one fading,
What tears his cheek would drown,
What grief his brow be shading!

"Lo! as yon silvery star

May soon in storms be shrouded,
And its soft rays afar

To us be overclouded.

Even so, thy heart's despair

Would dim his dazzling brightness,

And shade with clouds of care

His robe of snowy whiteness."

Died on the maiden's ear

The song of the kind fairy;
Then ceased the gushing tear,
Then grew her heart less weary;
For parting here, she knew,
Leads to a future meeting,
Where all the good and true
Enjoy an endless greeting.

And oft she came again

To thank the Well's fair daughter,

For that consoling strain

In which such truths she taught her;

But on the streamlet flow'd

In mild and peaceful gladness

Her beautiful abode

Who changed to joy such sadness.

And thus, when all is pain
Above, beneath, around us,
And sorrow's crushing chain
With iron link hath bound us,

Let us, no longer bowed

To earth with hopeless sorrow,
See, through the darkest cloud,
Rays of a joyous morrow.

What comes next? "The Snow Storm," and a "Dialogue between Brutus and Mark Anthony," both by the same author. Well, we shall put by "the Snow Storm" till a more fitting season, but the "Dialogue" is not such as we should suppose would have passed between the old Romans on the occasion, and so we shall be happy to return it to Mr. Harpur, and content ourselves with Shakspeare. Let us pass on-these characters are surely traced by a woman's fingers, and were it otherwise we would dare be sworn the lines were woman's composition, for they breathe a spirit of gentleness, and sorrow, and hope, and

there is an appreciation of the beauties of nature, tree, and flower, and the song of birds, and the glory of the heavens, that the sex so keenly feel. Ah, C. B. H., if our guess be true, you have a claim by inheritance to be a poetess, and we would have thee do better things yet than this.

Well, here is woman's work again. What is it all about? "Christmas Eve." Shall we let it lie over till the snow covers the green fields in December? Nay, 'twere pity to replace such sweet and tender melody in our casket; so we shall even