THE FIRMAMENT.

WHEN I Survey the bright
Celestial sphere,

So rich with jewels hung, that night
Doth like an Æthiop bride appear;

My soul her wings doth spread
And heavenward flies,

The ALMIGHTY's mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.
For the bright Firmament
Shoots forth no flame,

So silent, but is eloquent,

In speaking the CREATOR's name.

No unregarded star

Contracts its light,

Into so small a character,

Remov'd far from our human sight:

But if we steadfast look,

We shall discern
In it, as in some holy book,

How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

Thus those celestial fires,

Though seeming mute,

The fallacy of our desires,

And all the pride of life confute :

For they have watch'd since first
The world had birth,

And found sin in itself accurs'd,

And nothing permanent on earth.

W. HABINGTON, 1635.

THE CLOSE OF SUMMER.

FAREWELL, ye banks, where late, the primrose growing
Among fresh leaves, its pallid stars displayed ;
And the ground-ivy's balmy flowers blowing,
Trail'd their festoons along the grassy shade.
Farewell! to richer scenes and Summer pleasures,
Hedge-rows, engarlanded with many a wreath,
Where the wild roses hang their blushing treasures
And to the evening gale the woodbines breathe.

Farewell! the meadows, where such various showers
Of beauty lurk'd among the fragrant hay,

Where orchis bloom'd with freak'd and spotted flowers,
And lychnis blushing like the new-born day.

The burning Dog-star, and the insatiate mower
Have swept or wither'd all this floral pride:
And mullein's now, or bugloss' lingering flower
Scarce cheer the green lane's parch'd and dusty side.

His busy sickle now the month's-man wielding,
Close are the light and fragile poppies shorn;
And while the golden ears their stores are yielding,
The azure corn-flowers fall among the corn.

The woods are silent too, where loudly flinging
Wild notes of rapture to the western gale,
A thousand birds their hymns of joy were singing,
And bade enchanting hours of Spring-time hail.

The stock-dove now is heard in plaintive measure,
The cricket shrill, and wether's drowsy bell,
But to the sounds and scents of vernal pleasure,
Music and dewy airs, a long farewell.

MRS. C. SMITH.

THE SEASONS.

THE Seasons are my friends, companions dear!
Hale Winter will I tend with constant feet,
When over wold and desert, lake and mere,
He sails triumphant in a rack of sleet,
With his rude joy the russet earth to greet,
Pinching the tiny brook and infant ferry ;

And I will hear him on his mountain-seat,
Shouting his boisterous carol free and merry,
Crown'd with a Christmas-wreath of crimson holly-berry.

Young Spring will I encounter, coy and arch,
When in her humid scarf she leaves the hills,
The dewy cheek dried by the winds of March,
To set the pebbly music of the rills,
As yet scarce freed from stubborn icicles:
And Summer shall entice me once again,
Ere yet the light her golden dew distils,
To intercept the morning on the plain,
And see Dan Phoebus slowly tend his drowsy wain.

But, pensive Autumn, most with thee I love,
When the wrung peasant's anxious toil is done,
Among thy bound and golden sheaves to rove,
And glean the harvest of a setting sun,
From the pure mellowing fields of ether won ;
And in some sloping meadow, musing sit,
Till Vesper rising slowly, widow'd nun,
Reads whisperingly, her radiant lamp new-lit,
The gospel of the stars, great Nature's holy writ!

CHARLES WHITEHEAD.

A DAY IN AUTUMN.

THERE was not, on that day, a speck to stain
The azure heaven; the blessed Sun, alone,
In unapproachable divinity,

Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light.
How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky,
The billows heave! one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst,
Embath'd in emerald glory. All the flocks
Of Ocean are abroad: like floating foam,
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves;
With long protruded neck the cormorants
Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.
It was a day that sent into the heart

A Summer feeling: even the insect swarms
From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth,
To sport through one day of existence more;
The solitary primrose on the bank
Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn
Its bleak autumnal birth; the Rocks and Shores,
The Forest, and the everlasting Hills,

Smiled in that joyful Sunshine,-they partook
The universal blessing.

TO A THRUSH.

SWEET Thrush! whose wild untutor'd strain

Salutes the opening year, Renew those melting notes again,

And soothe my ravish'd ear.

Though in no gaudy plumage dress'd,
With glowing colours bright,
Nor gold, nor scarlet, on thy breast
Attracts our wondering sight:

Yet not the pheasant, or the jay,
Thy brothers of the grove,
Can boast superior worth to thee,
Or sooner claim our love.

How could we transient beauty prize

Above melodious art!

Their plumage may seduce our eyes,

Thy song affects our heart.

While evening spreads her shadowy veil,

With pensive steps I'll stray,

And soft on tiptoe gently steal
Beneath thy favourite spray.

Thy charming strain shall doubly please,
And more my bosom move,

Since Innocence attunes those lays

Inspir'd by Joy and Love.

CATHARINE HOOD.