like that field in Sicily, of which Diodonus speaks, where the perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it to fall off, and lose their hottest scent. I say, as I sat thus joying in my own happy condition, and pitying this poor rich man that owned this and many other pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did thankfully remember what my Saviour said, that the meek possess the earth, or rather they enjoy what the others possess and enjoy not."

My fancy dares to picture a lonely valley winding in among the mountains, above the broad and azure sea of Galilee; the majestic palm is scattered in careless groups about that green valley, and rears its graceful foliage towards a sky of sapphire clearness, gradually melting through every pale and delicate tint into the richest amber. There, on many a level strand, encircled by shadowy rocks, and overspread with rich grass, the cedar hangs down its massy shade in solitary grandeur. The rose of Sharon, and the lily of the field, are blooming there in wild luxuriance; and a clear spring, seeming to distil from the rocky sides of a deep cavern, glides silently over the smooth turf. Stately aloes, and lemon trees laden with their pale yellow fruit and ivory blossoms, grow beside the stream; and sycamores, twined and drooped with the long and waving festoons of the wild vine, through whose mantling foliage the sun shoots down its rays, and trembles in stars of golden lustre, upon the grassy bed of the pure stream. “There is much grass in

that place," and not a sound disturbs the stillness which reigns over a countless multitude of persons, all reclining on the green grass; every eye seeks but one object, and there rests its gaze in the full and satisfied rapture of adoration; every ear is thirsting to catch the faintest murmurs of his voice, who spake truly as never man spake; that voice which sinks, with more than the music of human eloquence, deep into every heart. Evening approaches, but a lingering radiance seems to kindle around one form, standing up there in all the majesty of holiness, and a glory of sunbeams gathers, and blazes 'mid the waves of hair, parting and falling from that calm clear forehead, and the sun touches with its pure lustre the mild and melancholy light of those eyes, upraised in rapt communion with the Almighty Father of Heaven. The scene is changed The shadows of night have deepened over that mountain valley, and a few pale silvery stars seem vainly struggling into light from behind the swiftly-passing clouds. multitude is gone, but the wail of low and mournful winds, sweeping at intervals through the dark trees and mountain hollows, now rudely disturbs the quietness of the valley. There is a sound as of a voice in prayer! Alone, in that dark wilderness, praying for a guilty and ungrateful world, the Son of God, the Saviour of mankind, kneels on the cold damp turf.

The

MAY SONNETS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ANTEDILUVIAN SKETCHES," &c.

I.

THE heart of Nature is a glad one now:

High in the heavens are songs above the day;
And love and gladness live on every bough,
In this clear morning of delightful May.
The swallow do I see, the cuckoo hear―

Blithe twitter, and bold voice, ye please me well: O! make the heart of May, like Nature's, clear, Throughout the summer where you come to dwell. What poet can behold this, and forget

What heart that loveth God and Man, behold The seal of heaven in earthly beauty set,

And walk the earth with spirit dead and cold? Freshness beneath, and splendour all above, The world in light-is Beauty, Joy, and Love!

II.

What delicate freshness in the foliage green,
What graceful drooping dwells with every spray,

Now in the rosy light of sunrise seen,

In this clear morning of the joyful May.

Of thy own song and Nature's gladness proud,
O, blackbird! singing in love's sweet excess,
Thus, in thy secret thicket, piping loud,

Thou canst not more than I do feel express.
I think of Christ, now I do hear the dove-
Of his ascension, now the lark I hear-
Of Virtue triumphing— Eternal Love—

Immortal Hope-and feel no mortal fear.
Can Nature give me more than she doth give?
O God! I thank thee, I have lived-and live!

THE THRUSH'S NEST.

BY JOHN CLARE.

WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard, from morn to morn, a merry thrush Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound With joy:-and often, an intruding guest, I watched her secret toils, from day to day,

How true she warped the moss to form her nest, And modeled it within with wood and clay. And by-and-bye, like heath bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted-over shells of green and blue. And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

THE EMBARKATION.

WAS it from Sidon old,

Or Tyre, or Tarshish, or some city fair
Of Greece or Egypt, that these people went?
It was a place of ships, whose merchants bare,
From isle and continent,

Ivory and gems, fine carvéd-works and gold.
Its name I know not, nor wherefore

This throng of people leaves its shore.

Perchance, 'tis for the shrine

Of some great Deity,

Star-crowned and called divine,

And worshipped with high rites and great solemnity,

That all this people go?

Perchance there is some mighty woe

Within some palace hall,

Some daughter sick to death,
Whose quivering parting breath

Her weeping father would recall.