142 MAY. 



Or is it that thou lov'st to show 

 Thy coronals of fragrant snow, 

 Like life's spontaneous joys that flow 



In paths by thousands beat ? 

 Whate'er it be, I love it well ; 

 A name, methinks, that surely fell 

 From poet, in some evening dell, 



Wandering with fancies sweet. 



A name given in those olden days, 

 When, mid the wild-wood's vernal sprays, 

 The merle and mavis poured their lays 



In the lone listener's ear, 

 Like songs of an enchanted land, 

 Sung sweetly to some fairy band, 

 Listening with doffed helms in each hand 



In some green hollow near. 



W. H. 



Rye is in ear at the end of the month. This 

 too is the benting time of pigeons. After the 

 spring-corn has vegetated, until the harvest, they 

 are driven to immature seeds and green panicles 

 of the grasses for subsistence, and are seen in 

 large flocks in pasture fields, where they pick 

 up so bare a living as to have occasioned an 

 old couplet, often quoted in the country, 



The pigeon never knoweth woe, 

 Until a benting it doth go. 



