and when the vital sparkle of the day is over, in sight and sound, the nightingale still continues to tell us its joy; the moon seems to be watching us, as a mother does her sleeping child; and the little glow-worm lights up her trusting lamp, to show her lover where she is.Leigh Hunt.

TO E. L. E. ON MAY MORNING.

BY JOHN CLARE.

"Sit under the May-bush at the head of the table."-DARLEY.

Lady, 'tis thy desire to move

Far from the world's ungentle throng:

Lady, 'tis thy delight to love

The muses, and the heirs of song:

Nor taste alone is thine to praise,

For thou canst touch the minstrel wire,
And, while thou'rt praising others' lays,
Wake notes that any may admire :
Forgive, if I, in friendship's way,
Do offer thee a wreath of May.

I greet thee with no gaudy flowers,
For thou art not to fashions prone,
But rather lov'dst the woodland bowers,
Where Nature's beauties charm alone.
The Passion-flower and Ceres fine

By wealth and pride are reared alone,
Yet flowers more sweet, nor less divine,
Spring's humbler fields and forest own,

To every hand and bosom given,
And nourished by the dews of heaven.

The little Violet's bloom I weave

In wreaths, I'm fain that thou should'st prize, Although it comes at Winter's eve,

And often in the tempest dies.

The Primrose, too, a doubtful dream

Of what precarious Spring would be,
Yet would I not the type should seem

Aught fancy feigns, resembling thee,
And thus belie thy gentle heart,
Where worldly coldness hath no part.

Here, too, are boughs of opening May,
And Lillies of the valley fair,

Yet not with idle praise to say

They're types of what are sweet and fair:
I cropt one from the pasture hedge,
The others from the forest dell,
And thou hast given the muses pledge
Such scenes delight thy bosom well;
'Tis not thy person wakes my lays,
Thy heart alone I mean to praise.

Forgive me, though I flatter not,

Youth's beauties it were thine to wear, Hath been by riper years forgot,

Though thou hast had a happy share, And I might praise full many a grace

That lives and lingers yet behind;

But they, like flowers, shall change their place: Not so the beauties of the mind;

So I have Ivy placed between,

To prove that worth is ever green.

The little blue Forget-me-not

Comes too on Friendship's gentle plea,

Spring's messenger in every spot,

Smiling on all, remember me:

But gaudy Tulips find no place

In garlands friendship would bestow,

Yet here the Cowslip shows its face,

Prized for its sweetness more than show:

Emblems to pride and pomp inclined

Would but offend a modest mind.

I would not on May's garland fling
The Laurel to the muse and thee,
For fashion's praise-a common thing
Hath made of that once sacred tree;
And, trust me, many Laurels wear,

That never grew on Parnass' hill,
Yet dare, and speed 'tis thine to heir
The muse's Laurels, if ye will :
Let flattery think her wreaths divine,
Merit by its own worth will shine.

O, when I view the glorious host
Of poets to my country born,
Though sorrow was the lot of most,
And many shared the sneers of scorn,
That, now by time and talent tried,
Give life to fame's eternal sun:
O, when I mark the glorious pride,
That England from her bards hath won,
E'en I, the meanest of the throng,
Warm into ecstacy and song.

The highest gifts each kingdom claims
Are minstrel's on the muse's throne,
And bards, who've won the richest fames,
'Tis England's noblest pride to own.
Shakspeares and Miltons, they that heir
The fames immortal o'er decay,
And Scotts and Byrons, born to wear
The honours of a later day,
That joins to present, past renown,
And sings, eternity to crown.

These, from proud Laurels never won Their fames and honours more divine,

They, like the grand eternal sun,

Confer their glories where they shine:

The Laurel were a common bough,
Had it not decked a poet's crown,
And even weeds, so common now,

Placed there, would augur like renown,
Bloom satellites in glory's way,
Proud as the Laurel and the Bay,

Lady, and thou hast chosen well
To give the muses thy regard:
There, taste from pleasure bears the bell;
There, feeling finds its own reward,
Though genius often, while it makes
Life's millions happy with her songs,
From Sorrow's cup her portion takes,
And struggles under bitterest wrongs:
To cares of life and song-unknown,'
The poet's fame be thine alone.

May 1, 1830.

THE SPRING JOURNEY.

BY BISHOP HEBER.

Oh green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright was the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the Sycamore's shade to behold,
And the Oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold.
The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud:
From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath and around.

The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,

I felt a new pleasure, as onwards I sped,

To gaze where the rainbow gleam'd broad over head.

Oh, such be life's journey, and such be our skill,
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill!

Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospects of Heaven!

JUNE.

'Twas a rich night in June. The air was all
Fragrance and balm, and the wet leaves were stirred
By the soft fingers of the southern wind,
And caught the light capriciously like wings,
Haunting the greenwood with a silvery sheen.
The stars might not be numbered, and the moon,
Exceeding beautiful, went up to heaven,
And took her place in silence, and a hush,
Like a deep sabbath of the night, came down
And rested upon nature.

N. P. Willis.

As in the Spring, we feel the freshness of young existence, and, while every thing is awakening into life around us, involuntarily wonder and wish to know what may be the nature of that singular principle which, after having lain as still as though it had been dead for a season, is beginning to mould creation into so many forms, and elaborate out of the same common stone, and by the agency of the same stimulating sun, plants and animals in all their tribes, amounting, probably, in the whole, in Britain and the surrounding sea, to more than twenty thousand species, and certainly to more than twenty thousand millions of individuals, in the course of one season; so, in the summer, when the catalogue seems full, and the earth, the air, and the waters are literally