"For there, in thickest shade of myrtles fair,.
A crystal spring pour'd out a silver flood
Amid the herbs, the grass, and flowers rare;
The falling leaves down patter'd from the wood;
The birds sang hymns of love; yet speak I nought
Of gold and marble rich, and richly wrought."

FAIRFAX'S Translation.

Another charming passage there is in this poem, which Spenser has imitated in the twelfth canto of his second book:

"Vezzosi augelli, infra le verdi fronde,

Temprano a prova lascivette note;
Mormora l'aura, e fa le foglie e l'onde
Garrir, che variamente ella percote
Quando taccion gli augelli, alto risponde ;
Quando cantan gli augei, piu lieve scote.
Sia caso o d'arte, or accompagna, ed ora
Alterna i versi lor la musica ora."

Canto xvi.

"The joyous birds, hid under greenwood shade,
Sung merry notes on every branch and bough;
The wind, that in the leaves and waters played,
With murmurs sweet now sung, and whistled now;
Ceased the birds, the winds loud answer made,
And while they sang, it rumbled soft and low;
Thus, were it hap or cunning, chance or art,
The wind in this strange music bore its part."
FAIRFAX'S Translation.

The beauties of the different seasons, particularly

of the spring and autumn, have frequently em

ployed the poet's pen:

"Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around. Full swell the woods; their every music wakes,

Mix'd in wild concert, with the warbling brooks
Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills,

And hollow lows responsive from the vales ;
Whence, blending all, the sweeten'd zephyr sings.

Then spring the living herbs, profusely wild,
O'er all the deep green earth, beyond the power
Of botanist to number up their tribes:
Whether he steals along the lonely dale

In silent search, or through the forest, rank
With what the dull incurious weeds account,
Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain-rock,
Fired by the nodding verdure of its brow:
With such a liberal hand has nature flung

Their seeds abroad, blown them about in winds
Innumerous, mix'd them with the nursing mould,
The moistening current, and prolific rain."

THOMSON.

Gawin Douglas has a lively description of the spring, which has been modernized by Mr. Fawkes. It is addressed to May, upon whom the beauties of spring are frequently lavished by the English poet. The poets of France and Italy

more frequently bestow them upon April, who

shows a more pleasant aspect and amiable disposition towards them than she does in this country.

The young and joyous spirit of spring sheds its sweet influence upon every thing: the streams sparkle and ripple in the noon-day sun, and the birds carol tipseyly their merriest ditties. It is surely the loveliest season of the year! Yet, hold! summer follows; and how beautiful is summer! the trees are heavy with fruit and foliage; the sun is bright and cheering in the morning; the shade of broad and leafy boughs is refreshing at noon; and the calm breezes of the evening whisper gently through the leaves, which reflect the liquid light of the moon, when she is seen

-" lifting her silver rim

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light."

Yet

And autumn-some will not hesitate to say that spring itself must yield to russet autumn. one advantage has spring, in being the herald of the year's ripe beauties; whereas autumn is daily warning us of the approach of the chill blasts of winter; and winter, it must be confessed, is the

least beauteous of the seasons, though for many of our home-loving countrymen, it has, perhaps, more comforts than any other season. Philips expatiates warmly upon the fantastic freaks of winter's frost, in his Letter from Copenhagen:

"And yet but lately have I seen, even here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.

Ere

yet

the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
Or winds began through hazy skies to blow,
At ev❜ning a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brightened every object to my eyes:
For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow;
The thick-sprung reeds which watery marshes yield
Seem polished lances in a hostile field;

The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise,

Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise;

The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,
Glazed over, in the freezing æther shine;
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun:
When if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies;

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends."

The following lines upon winter, addressed to the memory of Mr. Thomas Philips, would apply to the writer of this celebrated winter-piece:

"Nor were his pleasures unimproved by thee:
Pleasures he has, though horribly deform'd:
The silver'd hill, the polish'd lake, we see,

Is by thy genius fix'd, preserved, and warm'd.”
CHATTERTON.

The foliage of the wood begins in early summer to exhibit a variety of hues; greens infinitely varied; but the rich though sober dress of autumn is diversified also with yellow, brown, and red.

"But see, the fading many-coloured woods,

Shade deepening over shade, the country round
Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,
Of every hue from wan declining green

To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse,
Low-whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks,
And give the season in its latest view.

Incessant rustles from the mournful grove;
Oft startling such as, studious, walk below,
And slowly circles through the waving air.”

THOMSON'S Autumn.

"So when derne Autumn, wyth hys sallowe hande,
Tares the green mantle from the lymed trees,
The leaves bespringed on the yellow strande
Flie in whole armies from the blataunte breeze."
CHATTERTON.