“Thus sings the oldest English song extant, in a measure which is its own music. — The temperature of 
the air, however, is still mild, and in our climate sometimes too chilly; but when the season is fine, this is, 
perhaps, the most delightful month of the year. The hopes of spring are realized, yet the enjoyment is but 
commenced : we have all summer before us ; the cuckoo’s two notes are now at what may he called their 
ripest, — deep and loud; so is the hum of the bee; little clouds lie in lumps of silver about the sky, and 
sometimes fall to complete the growth of the herbage; yet we may now lie down on the grass, or the flowering 
banks, to read or write; the grass-hoppers click about us in the warming verdure; and the fields and hedges 
are in full blossom with the clover, the still more exquisite bean, the pea, the blue and yellow nightshade, 
the fox-glove, the mallow, white briony, wild honeysuckle, and the flower of the hip or wild rose, which 
blushes through all the gradations of delicate red and white. The leaves of the hip, especially the young 
ones, are as beautiful as those of any garden rose. Towards evening, the bat and the owl venture forth, 
flitting through the glimmering quiet; and at night, the moon looks silveriest, the sky at once darkest and 
clearest; and when the nightingale, as well as the other birds have done singing, you may hear the undried 
brooks of the spring running and panting through their leafy channels. £ lt ceased,’ says the poet, speaking 
of a sound of heavenly voices about a ship, — 
It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a hidden brook, 
In the leafy month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune.: C nit- ridge. 
“There is a greater accession of flowers, in this month than in any other. In addition to those of the 
last, the garden sparkles with marygolds, golden-road, larkspur, sun-flowers, amaranths, (which Milton in- 
termingles with sun-beams for his angel’s hair,) lupins, carnations, Chinese pinks, holyhocks, ladies’ slipper, 
annual stocks, campanulas, or little bells, martagons, periwinkles, wall-flower, snapdragon, orchis, nastur- 
tium, apocynum, chrysanthemum, cornflower, gladiolus, and convolvulus. The reader who is fond of poetry, 
and of the Greek fables, and does not happen to be acquainted with professor Martyn’s notes upon Virgil, 
should here be informed, that the species of red lily, called the martagon or Turk’s-cap, has been proved 
by that writer, at least to our satisfaction, to be the real ancient hyacinth, into which the youth of that name 
was turned by Apollo. The hyacinth, commonly so called, has nothing to show for its being the ancient 
one, which should be of a blood colour, and was said to be inscribed with the Greek exclamation of sorrow 
AI, AI. Now we were struck with the sort of literal black marks with which the Turk’s-cap is speckled, 
and on reading the professor’s notes, and turning to the flower again, we could plainly see, that with some 
allowance, quite pardonable in a superstition, the marks might now and then fall together, so as to indicate 
those characters. It is a most beautiful, glowing flower; and shoots gracefully forth in a vase or glass from 
among white lilies, and the double narcissus: — 
‘Now tell your story, Hyacinth ! and show Ai Ai the more amidst your sanguine woe.” 
A celebrated modern writer says, “take care of the minutes, and the hours will take care of themselves.” 
This is an admirable remark, and might be very seasonably recollected when we begin to be “ weary in well- 
doing,” from the thought of having much to do. The present moment is all we have to do with in any 
sense; the past is irrecoverable ; the future is uncertain ; nor is it fair to burthen one moment with the 
weight of the next. Sufficient unto the moment is the trouble thereof. If we had to walk a hundred miles, 
we should still have to set but one step at a time, and this process continued would infallibly bring us to 
our journey’s end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always increased, by calculating in a minute the exer- 
tion of hours. 
Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure 
all its sufferings, or encounter all its crosses at once. One moment comes laden with its own little burthens, 
then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the last ; if one could be borne, so can another, and 
another. 
Even in looking forward to a single day, the spirit may sometimes faint from an anticipation of the 
duties, the labours, the trials to temper and patience that may be expected. Now this is unjustly laying the 
burthen of many thousand moments upon one. Let any one resolve always to do right now, leaving then to 
do as it can ; and if he were to live to the age of Methusalem, he would never do wrong. But the common 
error is to resolve to act right after breakfast, or after dinner, or to-morrow morning, or next time; but now 
just now, this once, we must go on the same as ever. 
We are indebted for the description to that charming work “ the Botanist.” 
