Part 34

THOMSON--Castle of Indolence.

22. When comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill; The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood, and by the stream no more.

W. C. BRYANT.

23. Brave Winter and thou shalt ever agree, Though a stern and frowning gaffer is he; You like to hear him, with hail and rain, Come tapping against the window pane; You joy to see him come marching forth, Begirt with the icicle gems of the north; But you like him best when he comes bedight In his velvet robes of stainless white.

ELIZA COOK.

24. When "adieu!" father Winter has sadly said To the world, when about withdrawing, With his old white wig half off his head, And his icicle fingers thawing!

MISS H. F. GOULD.

25. Gentle May, She with her robe of flowers; She with her sun and sky, her clouds and showers! Who bringeth forth unto the eye of day, From their imprisoning and mysterious night, The buds of many hues, the children of her light.

J. LAWRENCE, JR.

26. The last days of Autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and mellow in the harvest-field, And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves.

I. MCLELLAN.

27. Drear Winter! With no unholy awe we hear thy voice, As by our dying embers, safely housed, We in deep silence muse.

H. K. WHITE.

28. You love to go in the capricious days Of April, and hunt violets, when the rain Is in their blue cups, trembling as they nod So gracefully, to kisses of the wind.

N. P. WILLIS.

29. Merry, ever merry May! Made of sun-gleams, shades, and showers, Bursting buds, and breathing flowers; Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested, Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested, Girdled with the eglantine, Festoon'd with the flowering vine!

GALLAGHER.

30. When the warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the year, On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.

SHELLEY.

31. When the angel of dread Winter cometh, But not in anger. As he speeds along, Borne on the chilling wind, he bids appear A thousand varied hues the trees among! What magic beauty doth his presence fling Round every leaf that quivers in the dell, Or shrub that to the mountain side doth cling! And the bright scene the calm lake mirrors well, As if within its depths were wove some golden spell.

H. F. HARRINGTON.

32. Delicious Spring! Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers, Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing From odorous buds of light-enfolded flowers, And from enmassed bowers, That over grassy walks their greenness fling.

ALBERT PIKE.

33. The Summer, the radiant Summer's the fairest, For green woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers, For waters and fruits, and for flowers the rarest, And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers.

MARY HOWITT.

34. When September's golden day, Serenely still, intensely bright, Fades on the umber'd hills away And melts into the coming night.

MRS. WHITMAN.

35. When Autumn chills the foliage, and sheds O'er the piled leaves, among the evergreens, All colors and all tints to grace the scene.