notion that if once cut down it never sprung again. Viewed in this light, as it has been well observed, “the cypress is no meet emblem for the Christian's grave :” no-"the Gospel, which has brought life and immortality to light," teaches us, that

"It is not all of life to live,

Nor all of death to die;"

"for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised."

If it be sleep that seals his brows,

And softly shuts his eye,

Then whither is the tint of rose

Which childhood's cheek in slumber knows?

Oh! where the quick, short sigh,

And gently heaving breast, which tell

To watchful mother all is well?

Too deep such calm for that sweet rest, Which he was wont to know,

When on thy fond maternal breast

His cheek and brow were closely prest,

Not motionless as now,

But varying with each winged dream

That on his infant mind did beam.

Now must his cradle be the tomb,
His pillow earth supply;

Yet weep not, for since such our doom,
Seems it not sweet in life's first bloom

To bow the head and die,

Ere scarce the hidden worm hath power To mar one folding of the flower?

Each year we heave a deeper sigh,
Our hopes are more o'ercast;
And had this shaft flown harmless by,
Think'st thou, that calm as infancy,
Youth, manhood, age had pass'd?
Or soft had been as thy fond breast
The pillow of his future rest?

Ah! no, the blow thy hopes which cross'd,

To him was sent in love;

For whilst to thee a child is lost,

Another seraph swells the host

Of glorified above;

Then calmly dust to dust resign,

Since gone the gem 't was wont to shrine.

And let us strew his cradle bed

With fragrant flowers and fair; Flowers that beseem the early dead, Such as do soonest bloom and fadeThe firstlings of the year;

And when we lay him in his grave,

Let the sad cypress o'er him wave.

The cypress?-nay, that were to throw

On faith and hope a stain,

By Christian grave ne'er should it grow,
For is't not said, if once laid low

It never springs again?

Whilst, to thy babe, the dying strife
But usher'd in undying life.

Hear'st thou a new, sweet voice essay
The strains which angels sing?

See'st thou along the star-paved way

A seraph blest, in bright array

Soar on exultant wing,

With harp in hand, and palm-crown'd brow?

Fond mother, such thine infant now.

And would'st thou round the free the blest

Earth's fetters re-entwine?

Or once again with thorns invest
Those brows, where now sweet peace

And cloudless bliss doth shine?
No-thy sole wish is now, to rise,
And join thy loved one in the skies.

doth rest,

THE HAWTHORN, OR MAY.

CRATEGUS OXYCANTHA.

"Amongst the many buds proclaiming May,
Decking the fields in holiday's array
(Striving who shall surpasse in braverie)

Marke the faire blooming of the hawthorne tree;

Who finely cloathed in a robe of white,

Feeds full the wanton eye with May's delight."

SOON as "the hawthorn whitens," we know that spring is in its zenith, and looking around we realise the vivid picture of the poet, –

And see the country far diffused around,

One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower

Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye

Hurries from joy to joy; and, hid beneath

The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies."

Various species of hawthorn are common in different lands; but our own may surely vie with any in beauty and fragrance. It is amongst the early-leafing trees, and none put forth a sunnier, richer tint: and then its