Part 35

RUFUS DAWES.

36. Ho! jewel-keeper of the hoary North! Whence hast thou all thy treasures? Why, the mines Of rich Golconda, since the world was young, Would fail to furnish such a glorious show! Yes, the Wintry king, So long decried, hath revenue more rich Than sparkling diamonds!

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

37. When Spring From sunny slopes comes wandering, Calling violets from the sleep, That bound them under the snow-drift deep, To open their childlike, asking eyes On the new summer paradise.

J. R. LOWELL.

38. Autumn! how lovely is thy pensive air! But chief the sounds from thy reft woods delight; Their deep, low murmurs to the soul impart A solemn stillness.

MRS. TIGHE--Psyche.

39. When Winter nights grow long, And winds without blow cold, And we sit in a ring round the warm hearth-fire, And listen to stories old.

BARRY CORNWALL.

40. Spring; When blushing like a bride from Hope's trim bower, She leaps, awakened by the pattering shower.

COLERIDGE.

41. Autumn dark on the mountains; when gray mists rest on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. The leaves whirl with the wind, and strew the graves of the dead.

OSSIAN.

42. When the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear; Disclose the long-expected flowers, And wake the purple year. The attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of Spring; While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs, through the clear blue sky, Their gather'd fragrance fling.

GRAY.

43. When golden Autumn from her open lap The fragrant bounty showers.

SOMERVILLE--The Chace.

44. Dark Winter is a happy time: God gives the earth repose, and earth bids man Wipe his hot brow; the poet pours his rhyme, And mirth awakes.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

45. When Spring-tide approaches; Leaf by leaf is developed, and warm'd by the radiant sunshine, Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown to the breeze.

LONGFELLOW.

46. The first day of May, When 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.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

47. The desolate and dying year, Yet lovely in its lifelessness, As beauty stretch'd upon the bier, In death's clay-cold and dark caress; There's loveliness in its decay, Which breathes, which lingers on it still.

J. G. BROOKS.

48. Pale, rugged Winter, bending o'er his tread, His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew; His eyes a dusky light, congeal'd and dead, His robe a tinge of bright ethereal blue.

CHATTERTON.

49. The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the skies, And by and by a cloud takes all away.