LINES.

So when the lark, poor bird! afar espyeth
Her yet unfeathered children, whom to save
She strives in vain-slain by the fatal scythe,
Which from the meadow her green locks do shave,
That their warm nest is now become their grave.
The woful mother up to heaven springs,
And all about her plaintive notes she flings,
And their untimely fate most pitifully sings.

VI.

May.

WHAT, alas! will become of those luckless wights-the

future poets of Caffreland and New Zealand, of Patagonia and Pitcairn's Island-when they suddenly awake to the miserable reality that there is no May in their year. May! The very word in itself is charming; pleasing to the eye, falling sweetly on the ear, gliding naturally into music and song, dowered with innumerable images of beauty and delight, imaginary bliss, and natural joy. What, we ask again, will be the melancholy consequences to the southern hemisphere when they become fully conscious that they have lost the " merry month," the "soote season," from their calendar -that with them January must forever linger in the lap of May. Conceive of Hottentot elegies and Fejee sonnets enlarging upon the balmy airs and soft skies of November; raving about the tender young blossoms of December, and the delicate fruits of January. Will the world ever become really

accustomed to such a change of key? We doubt it. After all, there is something in primogeniture; it naturally gives all the honors of precedence. Those writers who first caught the ear of the listening earth will always have the best of it; their successors must fain be content to yield a certain homage to long-established privileges. It will be a great while yet-at least a thousand years or so-before the Dryden of Port Sidney or the Camoens of Paraguay shall venture to say hard things of May!

MAY MORNING.

SONG.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long!

JOHN MILTON

EMILIA ON MAY DAY.

FROM FALAMON AND ARCITE."

Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,
Till once, 'twas on the morn of cheerful May,
The young Emilia, fairer to be seen

Than the fair lily on the flowery green

More fresh than May herself in blossoms new—

For with the rosy color strove her hue

Waked, as her custom was, before the day,

To do th' observance due to sprightly May:

For sprightly May commands our youth to keep

The vigils of her nights, and breaks their sluggard sleep.

Each gentle breath with kindly warmth she moves;

Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.

In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,

Arose, and dress'd herself in rich array;