MAT. 155 



Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re-appear: 

 O lost too early for the frequent tear, 

 And ill requited by this heart-felt sigh ! " 



The month of May with its buds, birds, and fresh 

 green bowers, may well recal the mind to poetical 

 influences and thoughts freshened with the dews of 

 youth, and we yield to them ere the heart grows cold 

 or is clogged with the dusty contentions of life. 

 Looking forth in the early morning hour especially, 

 the distant landscape in twilight with gray vapoury 

 lakes scattered over the low country, all seems still, 

 calm, and serene, the infancy of morning as the infancy 

 of life. The eastern sky brightens into gold with 

 pencil streaks of ruby, and the twitter of the swallow 

 and the musical bell of the Cuckoo are the matin 

 notes of early worship. The meadows wet with a 

 profusion of dew exhibit the liveliest green as the 

 river vapours roll away their fleecy squadrons and 

 ascend towards the dark wooded heights, but daisies, 

 cowslips, and buttercups are yet drowsy on their 

 stalks. One flower only, the yellow G-oatsbeard, 

 brisk and wakeful, meets the welcome blaze of the 

 sun upon the eastern hills. Time has been when we 

 were as wakeful too, eager to gaze on nature's beau- 

 ties, dashing over the reeking meadows in the gray 

 morn like the Bat in the twilight, crossing tottering 

 bridges, heathy wilds, and stumbling over stony places, 

 till amidst scented shrubs we stood panting with 

 excitement waiting for the sun on some mossy hill 

 top. Unless, indeed, the season be very ungenial, the 

 extreme beauty and freshness of vegetation at this 

 period of the year, awakens sensations of buoyant and 

 thrilling delight in every breast not absolutely pros- 



