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There has not been a sound to-day
To break the calm of nature;
Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life or living creature :

Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing;

I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.
I stood to hear-I love it well,
The rain's continuous sound,

Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,
Down straight into the ground.

For leafy thickness is not yet

Earth's naked breast to skreen,
Though ev'ry dripping branch is set
With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn,
Those honeysuckle buds

Have swelled to double growth; that thorn

Hath put forth larger studs;

That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,

The milk-white flowers revealing;

Even now, upon my senses first

Methinks their sweets are stealing:

The very earth, the steamy air,
Is all with fragrance rife!

And grace and beauty ev'ry where

Are flushing into life.

Down, down they come-those fruitful stores!

Those earth-rejoicing drops!

A momentary deluge pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops.

And, ere the dimples on the stream

Have circled out of sight,

Lo! from the west, a parting gleam
Breaks forth, of amber light.

*

*

But yet behold-abrupt and loud,
Comes down the glitt'ring rain;
The farewell of a passing cloud,
The fringes of its train.

Want of space forbids us from pursuing the details of the picture the effects of the sudden sunshine on the birds-the passing of a train of cows from the pasture and, lastly, of a flock of sheep, which

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The shepherd saunters last-but why
Comes with him, pace for pace,
That ewe? and why, so piteously,
Looks up the creature's face?
Swung in his careless hand, she sees,
(Poor ewe!) a dead cold weight,
The little one her soft warm fleece
So fondly cherished late.
But yesterday, no happier dam
Ranged o'er those pastures wide
Than she, fond creature! when the lamb
Was sporting by her side.

It was a new-born thing-the rain

Poured down all night-its bed

Was drenched and cold. Morn came again,
But the young lamb was dead.

Yet the poor mother's fond distress
Its ev'ry art had tried

To shield, with sleepless tenderness,
The weak one at her side.

Round it all night she gathered, warm,
Her woolly limbs-her head
Close curved across its feeble form;
Day dawned, and it was dead.
She saw it dead-she felt, she knew
It had no strength, no breath,
Yet how could she conceive, poor ewe!
The mystery of death?

It lay before her, stiff and cold;

Yet fondly she essayed

To cherish it in love's warm fold,
Then restless trial made;
Moving with still reverted face,

And low complaining bleat,

To entice from their damp resting-place

Those little stiff'ning feet.

All would not do, when all was tried

Love's last fond lure was vain;

So quietly by its dead side

She laid her down again.

The process of vegetation is general and rapid in

this month. The blackthorn or sloe (prunus spinosa)

puts forth its elegant flowers; a host of others follow, among which may be named the ash (fraxinus excelsior), ground-ivy (glecoma hederacea), and the box-tree (buxus sempervirens). The apricot, the peach, nectarine, the wild and garden cherry, and the plum (all of which contain a portion of prussic acid, or the peculiar principle of almonds); gooseberry and currant trees, the hawthorn (cratogus oxycantha), and the sycamore (acer pseudo-platanus), are now in flower. The blossoms of the apple and pear present to the eye a most agreeable spectacle, particularly in those counties which abound with orchards.

The beech (fagus sylvatica) and the larch (pinuslarix rubra) are now in full leaf. The larch, also, exhibits its red tufts or flowers, which soon expand into cones, and the fir tribe show their cones also. That magnificent and beautiful tree, the horse-chesnut (hippocastanum), now displays its honours of fine green leaves and its handsome spikes pyramidal ' of white and red flowers: it is quite the glory of forest trees.

The laurel is in flower; and that universal favourite, the violet, is still seen and loved, for its own and for remembrance sake.

To the YELLow Violet.

By an American Poet.

When beechen buds begin to swell,

And woods the blue-bird's warble know,

The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flow'r! love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the wat'ry mould;

And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent Sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.
Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flow'rs are flaunting nigh.
Oft in the sunless April day

Thy early smile has stayed my walk ;
But'midst the gorgeous blooms of May
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.
So they who climb to wealth forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried;
I copied them—but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.
And when again the genial hour

Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flow.r

That made the woods of April bright.

Many and lovely are the flowers which are showered, in profusion, from the lap of April: among them may be named the jonquil, anemoné, ranunculus, polyanthus, and the crown imperial. The double white, the yellow, and some others of the earlier tulips, are fully opened in this month; but the more illustrious varieties will not blow for some weeks. This tribe is the gayest offspring of floriculture. Other flowers which adorn our fields, at this time, are the checquered daffodil (fritillaria meleagris), the primrose', the cowslip (primula veris), the lady-smock

And now the primrose finely strews the path,
And sweetest violets lay down their heads
At some tree's root, on mossie feather-beds.

W. BROWNE.

2. When I awoke in the morning, I went up to the window: the first thing I saw was the church; I remembered that my mother's body had been lying out all night, and ran as fast as I could to the churchyard. The dark pit was not to be seen, nor could I find where it had been for some time. On the spot was a sort of mound raised up, like many others in the churchyard, coved with fresh turf, and bound together with osiers. One little cowslip was growing up among the grass; the soft pale green stem of this flower was no longer than a long blade of grass; but I was quite glad to see it,

(cardamine pratensis), and the harebell (hyacinthus

non scriptus).

The HAREBELL.

With drooping bells of clearest blue,
Thou didst attract my childish view,
Almost resembling

The azure butterflies that flew

Where on the heath thy blossoms grew,
So lightly trembling.

Where feathery fern and golden broom
Increase the sand-rock cavern's gloom,
I've seen thee tangled,

'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom
By vain Arachne's treacherous loom
With dew-drops spangled.

'Mid ruins tumbling to decay,

Thy flowers their heavenly hues display,
Still freshly springing,
Where pride and pomp have past away
On mossy tomb and turret gray,
Like friendship clinging.

When glow-worm lamps illume the scene,
And silvery daisies dot the green,
Thy flowers revealing,
Perchance to soothe the fairy-queen,
With faint sweet tones ou night serene,
Thy soft bells pealing.

But most I love thine azure braid,
When softer flowers are all decayed,
And thou appearest

Stealing beneath the hedgerow shade,
Like joys that linger as they fade,
Whose last are dearest.

Thou art the flower of memory;
The pensive soul recals in thee
The year's past pleasures;

and every morning I went to look if the little buds were blown, and, when the weather was very dry, I always watered it. After it left off blowing, I never forgot it; but loved its little crimped half-hidden leaves better than all the brightest summer flowers,: now there are more than thirty cowslips on my mother's grave. A cowslip was her favourite flower.'-May you Like It, 12mo. 1822. ·