A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS.

HEN Spring comes laughing
By vale and hill,

By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,

Sing stars of morning,

Sing morning skies,
Sing blue of speedwell,
And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer,
Full-leaved and strong,

And gay birds gossip

The orchard long,

Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses,

And my Love's lips.

100

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS.

When Autumn scatters
The leaves again,

And piled sheaves bury

The broad-wheeled wain,—

Sing flutes of harvest

Where men rejoice ;
Sing rounds of reapers,
And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter
With hail and storm,

And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,—

Sing first sad going

Of friends that part ;
Then sing glad meeting
And my Love's heart.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

WILD ROSE.

O call My Lady where she stood

"A Wild-Rose blossom of the wood,"
Makes but a poor similitude.

For who by such a slight would reach
An aim, consumes the worth in speech,
And sets a crimson rose to bleach.

My Love, whose store of household sense
Gives duty golden recompense,

And arms her goodness with defence :

The sweet reliance of whose gaze
Originates in gracious ways,

And wins that trust the trust repays :

Whose stately figure's varying grace
Is never seen unless her face
Turn beaming toward another place;

For such a halo round it glows,
Surprised attention only knows
A lively wonder in repose.

Can flowers that breathe one little day
In odorous sweetness life away,
And wavering to the earth decay,

Have any claim to rank with her,
Warmed in whose soul impulses stir
Then bloom to goodness; and aver

Her worth through spheral joys shall move
When suns and systems cease above,

And nothing lives but perfect Love?

THOMAS WOOLNER.

DAISY'S DIMPLES.

1.

PITTLE dimples so sweet and soft,
Love the cheek of my love;

The mark of Cupid's dainty hand,
Before he wore a glove.

II.

Laughing dimples of tender love,

Sinile on my darling's cheek;
Sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk,
And play at hide and seek.

III.

Fain would I hide my kisses there
At morning's rosy light,

To come and seek them back again

In silver hush of night.

J. ASHBY-STERRY.