Thou wast not born when merry May

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Hangs out the virgin flag of spring,"

When birds from every bush and spray

Are caroling.

Thou wast not born when summer throws

Her glory over sky and earth,

Nor did the beam which wakes the rose

Smile on thy birth.

No; like this shrub which cheers the bower,

What time the threatening storm is rife,

A blessing for the wintry hour

Thou sprang to life.

And such art still no summer friend,
Breathing smooth things in Pleasure's ear;

But, oh! let grief the spirit rend,

And thou art near.

Then takes thy voice its softest tone,

Then is thy hand upraised to bless,

And then the tender warmth is known

Of thy caress.

Let others, then, invoke the spring,
And joy to see her buds unclose,

Or from each bush bright summer fling

Her own sweet rose.

I will not grieve to see them go,

While winter such a wreath can twine;
Ah! see how brightly through the snow

These berries shine!

What could I less, than love the hour

Which stills the bird, and strips the lea,

Since, oh! to cheer the social bower,

THE BOX, THE LAUREL, AND THE HOLLY.

BUXUS.

PRUNUS.

ILEX AQUIFOLIUM.

"When rosemary and bays, the poet's crown,

Are bawl'd in frequent cries throughout the town,

Then judge the festival of Christmas near,
Christmas, the joyous period of the year:

Now with bright holly all the temples strew,
With laurel green, and sacred mistletoe."

THE fast fading away of many ancient and pleasant usages, such as ushering in May-day and Christmas, each with its appropriate garland, together with many other unequivocal proofs, remind us that we live in an unimaginative age; an age in which the progress of science, the ingenuity of invention, and the extension and acquirements of commerce, are every where conspicuous; these, in the very nature of things, must soon totally extinguish, not only those few remains of what may be termed practical poetry that are as yet spared to us, but even the spirit of poetry itself.

The touching practice of strewing the dead, and