Lay all around; the ruin'd bark sunk down,
Her pilot's eye still upward turn'd to heaven;
The waters gather'd o'er, and not a wreck
Was left to tell of all that once had been.

The vision changed once more

A sadden'd voice

Bore to mine ear this moral, 'Such is life!'

F

LINES TO A JESSAMINE IN EARLY

SPRING.

BY MRS. VIRGINIA CARY.

SWEET starry wreath that deck'st my bower
With many a golden vested flower,

I hail with joy the coming hour,

When thy fresh bloom

Shall o'er me shed its balmy power
In rich perfume.

I watch the breeze that softly plays
Among thy green dishevel'd sprays,
And catch the murmur as it strays
Along the wind,

Till many a thought of other days
Comes o'er my mind.

Since first thy mantling vine was spread
In gay luxuriance o'er my head,

How oft have sorrow's dews been shed
In nightly showers!

こ

How many hopes have bloom'd and fled Among thy flowers!

Yet still, when spring renews thy pride,
And freshening breezes o'er thee glide,
I feel the sympathetic tide

Of pleasure flow!

And joys that fate has long denied
Within me glow.

LAYS OF THE SEASONS.

BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

SPRING.

COME to my festival! Come to my festival!
This is the first day of May-

The sun is rejoicing alone in heaven;

The clouds have all hurried away.

Down in the meadow the blossoms are waking,
Light on their twigs the young leaves are shaking;
Round the warm knolls the lambs are a-leaping,
The colt from his fold o'er the pasture is sweeping;
And on the bright lake the little waves break,
For there the cool west is at play.

Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
This is the first day of May.

Come to my festival! Come to

my

festival!

Lose not so happy a day—

The maidens are pranking their locks with flowers,

And donning their proudest array.

Over the mountains the south wind is rolling,

And tossing its forest in billows;

Through orchard and vineyard and garden strolling,

And whispering among the green willows.

Then mount the plumed bonnet, with true love knots on it,

Haste hither!-O! how can ye stay!—

Come to my festival! Come to my festival!
This is the first day of May.

SUMMER.

Golden is the harvest field,

Bright the sky above,

And its orb a burning shield

On the arm of Jove;

Hot the wearied reaper toils

Till the day is done,

And the flashing ocean boils

Round the setting sun.

O! some cool, some midnight cave

By the rushing river,

There my beating pulse to lave,

Sleep and dream for ever.

All are now in serious strife
Gathering in their grain;