SUMMER WINDS.

Up the dale and down the bourne, O'er the meadows swift we fly; Now we sing, and now we mourn, Now we whistle, now we sigh.

By the glassy, fringed river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep;

'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very hearts we creep.

Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we say,
While aside her cheek we 're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming groves we rustle,
Kissing every bud we pass,—
As we did it in the bustle,
Scarcely knowing how it was.

Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain,
Till its little breakers foam.

Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper-hymn we sigh;
Then unto our rosy pillows,
On our weary wings we hie.

There of idlenesses dreaming,
Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages seeming,
Till we 're at our play again.

G. DARLEY.

THE HOLLY-TREE.

O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly-tree?

The eye that contemplates it well, perceives
Its glossy leaves

Order'd by an intelligence, so wise

As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralize :

And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree

Can emblems see,

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere,

To those who on my leisure would intrude

Reserv'd and rude;

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,

Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,

Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And as when all the Summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The Holly-leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree?

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they ;

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly-tree.

SOUTHEY.

The Common Holly, Ilex Aquifolium, has long been esteemed for its great beauty, glittering,' as Evelyn observes, "with its armed and varnished leaves, and blushing with its natural coral." This and other evergreens have for ages been used to decorate and enliven our houses and churches, during the dreary season between Christmas and Candlemas. The lower leaves of this plant are wavy, strongly armed with spines, while the upper ones are entire, terminated with a single prickle. This difference in the foliage has been pleasingly noticed by our Poet, Southey, in the above delightful poem.-The uses of prickles in shrubs are thus enumerated by the excellent John Ray."To secure them from the browsing of beasts, as also to shelter others that grow under them. Moreover, they are hereby rendered useful to man, as if designed by Nature, to make both quick and dead hedges." The uses, which Pliny notes, are, "Lest the greedy quadruped should browse upon them, the hand wantonly seize them, the careless footstep tread upon them, or the perching bird break them."-Nat. Hist., xxii. 6. The benevolent Grahame adds another great use of thorny shrubs, which these naturalists have omitted,-it is this, they protect the small birds from the attacks of their stronger neighbours.

SWEET-SCENTED FLOWERS.

Go mingle Arabia's gums

Go

With the spices all India yields:
crop each young flower as it blooms,
Go ransack the gardens and fields.

Let Pæstum's all-flowery groves
Their roses profusely bestow:

Go catch the light zephyr that roves

Where the wild thyme and marjoram grow.

Let every pale night-scented flower,
Sad emblem of passion forlorn,
Resign its appropriate hour,

To enhance the rich breath of the morn.

All that art, or that nature can find,
Not half so delightful would prove,
Nor their sweets all together combin'd,
Half so sweet as the breath of my love.
SIR J. E. SMITH.

THE BARN OWL.

WHILE moonlight, silvering all the walls,
Through every mouldering crevice falls,
Tipping with white his powdery plume,
As shades or shifts the changing gloom;
The Owl that, watching in the barn
Sees the mouse creeping in the corn,
Sits still, and shuts his round blue eyes
As if he slept, until he spies

The little beast within his stretch

Then starts,—and seizes on the wretch !

BUTLER.

"If this useful bird, Strix Flammea," says Mr. Waterton, "caught its food by day, instead of hunting for it at night, mankind would have ocular demonstration of its utility in thinning the country of mice, and it would be protected and encouraged everywhere. It would be with us what the Ibis was with the Egyptians."-Mag. of Nat. Hist., vol. 5. It has obtained the name of the Screech Owl from its cries, which are repeated at intervals, and rendered loud and frightful from the stillness of the night. It is on this account considered among the superstitious a bird of unwelcome omen. Shakspeare observes,

It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good night.

Macbeth, iv. 2.

Mallet, in his Edwin and Emma, prettily introduces it :

Now homeward, as she hopeless went,
The church-yard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

WOODLAND SCENERY.

His task had Giles, in fields remote from home;
Oft has he wish'd the rosy morn to come :
And when at day-break summon'd from his bed,
Light as the lark that carol'd o'er his head;
His sandy way, deep-worn by hasty showers,
O'er-arch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bowers,
Waving aloft their towering branches proud,
In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud,
(When inspiration, pure as ever flow'd,
And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd,)
His own shrill matin join'd the various notes
Of Nature's music, from a thousand throats:
The blackbird strove with emulation sweet,
And echo answer'd from her close retreat;
The sporting white-throat on some twig's end borne,
Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising morn;
Stopp'd in her song, perchance, the starting thrush
Shook a white shower from the black-thorn bush,
Where dewdrops thick as early blossoms hung,
And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung:
Across his path, in either grove to hide,
The timid rabbit scouted by his side;
Or bold cock pheasant stalk'd along the road,
Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd.