feeling and conduct of maturer years, and of old age, are almost invariably marked by the character which distinguished the youth; that the man, who neglected God and religious duties when young, becomes more averse from them as he advances in life, and leaves the world with the same irreligious temper with which he entered upon it; unimproved by the events that have happened to him, bearing no similitude to God, without the favour of his friendship, and unprepared for the joys of his presence? Or, is this the envied character you desire to form? is this the happy end to which you aspire? is such the life you wish to lead? or such the death you hope to die?
My young friends, let not any evil suggestions enslave you, and prevent you from pursuing that conduct, which reason and Scripture pronounce to be honourable and safe. If it be an awful thing to die without hope of future happiness, it is an awful thing to live every moment liable to death, without those dispositions, which, by the wise appointment of Almighty God, are necessary to obtain the blessedness of the world to come.
The Seasons.-MRS. BARBAULD.
WHO may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid,
In light-green robe with careless ease arrayed?
Her head is with a flowery garland crowned,
And where she treads, fresh flowerets spring arouna
Her genial breath dissolves the gathered snow,
Loosed from their icy chains the rivers flow;
At sight of her the lambkins bound along,
And each glad warbler trills his sweetest song;
Their mates they choose, their breasts with love are filled,
And all prepare their mossy nests to build.
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare
The name and lineage of this smiling fair.
Who from the south is this, with lingering tread Advancing, in transparent garments clad?
Her breath is hot and sultry: now she loves this hot
To seek the inmost shelter of the groves;
The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams,
To quench the heat that preys upon her limbs.
From her the brooks and wandering rivulets fly;
At her approach their currents quickly dry.
Berries and every acid fruit she sips,
To allay the fervour of her parching lips;
Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice,
She loves, which orchards plenteously produce.
The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who shears
The flocks, still hail the maid when she
At her approach, O be it mine to lie
Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply ·
Or with her let me rove at early morn,
When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn;
Or, at soft twilight, when the flocks repose,
And the bright star of evening mildly glows.
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare
The name and lineage of this blooming fair.
Who may he be that next, with sober pace,
Comes stealing on us? Sallow is his face;
The grape's red blood distains his robes around;
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound;
His hair hath just begun to fall away,
The auburn blending with the mournful gray.
The ripe brown nuts he scatters to the swain;
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train :
The gun is heard; the trerabling partridge bleeds;
The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds.
Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare,
If ye can tell, ye youths and maidens fair.
Who is he from the north that speeds his way?
Thick furs and wool compose his warm array:
His cloak is closely folded; bald his head;
His beard of clear sharp icicles is made.
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs;
With skait-bound feet the frozen lakes he skims.
When he is by, with breath so piercing cold,
No floweret dares its tender buds unfold.
Nought can his powerful freezing touch withstand;
And, should he smite you with his chilling hand,
Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast,
Or stand, like marble, pale and breathless as he passed.
Ye youths and maidens, does he yet appear?
Fast he approaches, and will soon be here.
Declare, I pray you, tell me, if ye can,
The name and lineage of this aged man.
THE stormy March is come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies. I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou to northern lands again,
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train,
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.
And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.
Then sing aloud the gushing rills
And the full springs, from frost set free,
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
Are just set out to meet the sea.
The year's departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat
But, in thy sternest frown, abides
A look of kindly promise yet.
Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
Seems of a brighter world than ours.
WHEN the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-in of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives :
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revivęs.
Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings Are glancing in the golden sun, along
And when bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.
And when the day is gone,
In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.
Sweet April, many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.
I FEEL a newer life in every gale;
The winds, that fan the flowers,
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours,-
Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.
The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air,
And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there;
The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.
The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,
To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;
And, from its darkening shadow, floats
A gush of trembling notes.
Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May,
The tresses of the woods,
With the light dallying of the west-wind play;
And the full-brimming floods,
As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.
The Voice of Spring.-MRS. HEM'ANS.
COME,
I come!-ye have called me long,—
I come o'er the mountains with light and song
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
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