But finer days are coming yet,

With scenes more sweet to charm ;
And suns arrive that rise and set

Bright strangers to a storm :
Then, as the birds with louder song

Each morning's glory cheer,
With bolder step she speeds along,

And loses all her fear.

In wanton gambols, like a child,

She tends her early toils,
And seeks the buds along the wild,

That blossom while she smiles :
Or laughing on, with nought to chide,

She races with the hours ;
Or sports by Nature's lovely side,

And fills her lap with flowers.
The shepherd on his pasture-walks

The first fair cowslip finds, Whose tufted flowers, on slender stalks

Keep nodding to the winds; And though the thorns withhold the may,

Their shades the violets bring, Which children stoop for in their play,

As tokens of the spring. Those joys which childhood calls its own,

Would they were kin to men ! Those treasures to the world unknown,

When known, are wither'd then!
But hovering round our growing years,

To gild care's sable shroud,
Their spirit thro' the gloom appears,

As suns behind a cloud.

Since thou didst meet

my
infant

eyes, As through the fields I flew, Whose distance, where they meet the skies,

Was all the world I knew;
That warmth of Fancy's wildest hours,

Which fill'd all things with life,
Which heard a voice in trees and flowers,

Has swoon'd in Reason's strife.
Sweet month! thy pleasures bid thee be

The fairest child of spring ;
And every hour that comes with thee,

Comes some new joy to bring.
The trees still deepen in their bloom,

Grass greens the meadow-lands,
And flowers with ev'ry morning come,

As dropt by fairy hands.
The field and garden's lovely hours

Begin and end with thee;
For what's so sweet as peeping flow'rs

And bursting buds to see,
What time the dew's unsullied drops,

In burnish'd gold, distil
On crocus flowers' unclosing tops,

And drooping daffodil ?
To see thee come, all hearts rejoice;

And, warm with feelings strong,
With thee all Nature finds a voice,

And hums a waking song.
The lover views thy welcome hours,

And thinks of summer come,
And takes the maid thy early flowers,

To tempt her steps from home.

Along each hedge and sprouting bush,

The singing birds are blest;
And linnet green, and speckl'd thrush,

Prepare their mossy nest.
On the warm bed thy plains supply,

The young lambs find repose,
And ’mid thy green hills basking lie,

Like spots of ling'ring snows.
Thy open'd leaves and open'd buds

The cuckoo makes his choice;
And shepherds in the greening woods

First hear his cheering voice;
And to thy ripen'd blooming bowers

The nightingale belongs; And, singing to parting hours,

Keeps night awake with songs.
With thee the swallow dares to come,

And cool his sultry wing;
And, urg'd to seek his yearly home,

Thy suns the martin bring.
Oh ! lovely month, be leisure mine

Thy yearly mate to be:
Though May-day scenes may brighter shine,

Their birth belongs to thee.
I wak'd me with thy rising sun,

And thy first glories view'd;
And, as thy welcome hours begun,

Their sunny steps pursued.
And now thy sun is on thee set,

Like to a lovely eve,
I view thy parting with regret,

And linger, loth to leave.

Though, at her birth, the northern gale

Come with its withering sigh,
And hopeful blossoms, turning pale,

Upon her bosom die;
Ere April seeks another place,

And ends her reign in this,
She leaves us with as fair a face

As e'er gave birth to bliss.

Clare.

THE DEAD.

NUMBER the grains of sand out-spread

Wherever Ocean's billows flow; Or count the bright stars over-head,

As these in their proud courses glow; Count all the tribes on earth that creep,

Or that expand the wing in air ; Number the hosts that in the deep,

Existence, and its pleasures share; Count the green leaves that in the breath

Of Spring's blythe gale are dancing fast; Or those, all faded, sere in death,

Which flit before the wint'ry blast ;Aye! number these, and myriads more,

All countless as they seem to be; There still remains an ampler store

Untold by, and unknown of Thee. Askest thou—“ Who, or what be they?"

Oh! think upon thy mortal doom ; And with anointed eye survey

The silent empire of the tomb !

Think of all those who erst have been

Living as thou art—even now; Looking upon life's busy scene

With glance as careless, light, as thou. All these, like thee, have liv'd and mov’d,

Have seen—what now thou look’st upon; Have fear'd, hop'd, hated, mourn’d, or lov’d,

And now from mortal sight are gone. Yet, though unseen of human eye,

Their relics slumber in the earth,
The boon of immortality

To them was giv'n with vital birth.
They were; and, having been, they are!

Earth but contains their mould'ring dust;
Their deathless spirits, near or far,

With thine must rise to meet the just. Thou know'st not but they hover near,

Witness of ev'ry sacred deed ; Which, shunning human eye or ear,

The spirits of the dead may heed. An awful thought it is to think,

The viewless dead out-number all Who, bound by life's connecting link,

Now share with us this earthly ball.
It is a thought as dread as high,

And one to wake a fearful thrill,
To think, while all who live must die,
THE DEAD, THE DEAD are living still.

B, Barton.