tems, blocking up the vast highway, "whose dust is gold," but opening still to thought's progressive flight, the bright retainers of the halls of heaven; as the distant wood, seeming so deep and tangled, presents an opening vista as we nearer come. Onward still, till wearied thought, lost in the wilderness of worlds, that closing far behind, scem cutting off retreat,adoring, trembling thought, flies humbled back to earth! What awful language has the stars. WHO Wonders that the bard, with voices such as these, resounding in his spirit's ear, should say, "Divine Instructor! Thy first volume this, For man's perusal; all in capitals! In moon and stars--heaven's golden alphabet! What will more appropriately close our view of this illumined page, than the almost triumphant interrogation of Mrs. Barbauld? "Is there not a tongue in every star, That talks with man, and woos him to be wise?" CHAPTER VI. Language of the seasons-The voice of Spring-Of SummerOf Autumn-Of Winter-Definition of language as already considered-Review-Proposition to the reader. "There is a voice with spring's sweet music blending! On every leaf and opening bud, a line; Field, forest, stream, soft notes to thee are sending; Will you, reader? Reason trembling asks, "if a man die, shall he live again?" Who will answer? Men cannot, nor angels. Then Spring's resurrection-call breathes softly over the hills and through the vales; and as the slumbering hosts, 'earth's mute but living daughters,' come forth, clad in the garments of beauty, their sweet offering of praise going up on high, THEY answer, "Cold in the dust, thy perish'd heart may lic, But that which warm'd it once, shall never die!" The lowly Liver-leaf, hearing that breezy call, unfurls its triple banner of pale blue; in the deep woods, the sweet Anemone catches it, and blooms. The Maple and the Elm are clothed again, and the glossy-leaved Willows line the streams; the yellow violets peep out, here and there, at the life-giving word; the roaming strawberry sends forth its tendril-scouts, and the gray, velvet mosses too, are touched with a new coat of green. The brooks loosed from their icy chains, flow carelessly along the pebbly channel, with a silvery sound of joy. "The time of the singing of the birds hath come," and they, you know, make music for the silent host, redeemed from winter and death, and singing on, they keep the chorus up, for the flowers to grow by; so the birds keep tune, and the flowers keep time! Singing and springing! Who does not love the morning of the year? Then, rainbows are born about this time, for an April day is a childish thing, all smiles and tears, sunshine and showers; and when the flowers fling off their little gray shrouds, there hangs the bow, and straight, their discs reflect its colored light; some, like the Lily, blend its hues in one; some crimson as the rose; some sport a mantle of light green, but all are daughters of the Bow and Hope! So will it be, in that great waking hour, when all the just shall stand arrayed in light reflected from above; so in that hour will shine their bow of promise in a cloudless sky! Every thing goes by music in these days; the birds build their nests to some merry measure; the dawn is ushered in with a song. Have you never been by, when the winds "turned out" from their thousand leafy berths? If not, I say to you, "Up! up, arise! haste, haste! the vernal morn Of the young sun, the eastern hills emblaze; Hasten to some neighboring wood; how still is every leaf, but hush! hark, what sound is that like distant voices, coming up from the deep, dim vale? Nearer, clearer! The winds are turning out now; see how their little couches rock and swing. On they come to greet the morning with the earliest song; just in time—for hear, the deep note of some waking bird rings from the thicket. The brooks play a prelude; the winds and the wooded vales together, make the bass, and the birds put in the variations. All the parts in the great anthem are filled, but one; and that is yours, reader; join then, in the gushings of gratitude, the true, unwritten melody of the heart! Sweet May comes on; then "leafy June." The forest trees put on their glory now; the deep green Oak, the lighter Elm, and paler still, the Ash; the silver Poplar and the Willow gray-all green, yet each a varied hue! The Indian Pipe, that elegant specimen of Nature's wax-work, with its nodding flower and leafless stem, all white as ivory, catches the eye, here and there near the roots of old trees. The ever green Laurel and the rough-coated Dogwood are rivals now; the latter all sprinkled over with snowy flowers; the former decked with clusters just as white, but for a faint blush, which makes them lovelier. Now the Side-saddle flower or Adam's cup rears high a temperance banner of dark purple, in the reedy swamp; for, from its root spring leafy cups, all filled with crystal water. By the shady brooks swing the little yellow pitchers which Touch-me-not hangs out, and the Winter-green lifts its delicate blossom of pink from among the dry leaves, while the little Blue-bell peeps fearlessly over the rocky cliff. The ambitious Clematis or Virgin's bower climbing to the tree-tops, hangs in rich festoons of white, her silvery plumes from bough to bough. The summer hours roll on. The insinuating Dodder, now gaily trims the trees and shrubs by brook and pond, with bright, gold, thread; all for its board too, for while it clings so lovingly, its little fibres are greedily drinking the "dear" plant's juices, up! Contemptible parasite! The fragrant Lilies of pure white appear on many a smooth pond and glassy lake; their yellow sisters, too, rise here and there from the clear wave; their large round leaves rest gently on the wa ter; all moored with living cables, green islands though they are; unpeopied, save when some hapless fly is stranded there, or a young water-snake seeks the leafy land, and coiling up, lies there to sun itself and sleep. D * The Blue-flag waves on the point of its green, supple blade, a challenge, writ on red and blue in yellow lines, all stolen from the bow; a challenge for that haughty foreigner, the Fleur-de-lis. These, too,are quickly gone; the scarlet Lobelia and the white Clethra,† tarry yet, fringing the brooks with mingled beauty, and the queenly Sunflower, now in "the full," rears her tall head above the rankest weeds of autumn. These, "one-by one depart," as the year's evening steals slowly on; the star-like Aster lingers longest, yet smiling faintly mid the withered grass. "A spirit in soft music calls From Autumn's gray and moss-grown walls, And round her withered tree." It To me, this twilight of the year is her loveliest season. talks so much of the close of a well-spent life; the sabbath of the year, and full of sabbath lessons. The bright glare of the summer's sun, is softened into a mellower light; a sweetly mournful smile rests on the face of nature; her work already done, she lingers yet, like some aged man, and waits her change; waits too, IN HOPE! Yes, when dismantled of the robes of death, "the tender germ which in a case russet and rude, is folded up," the embryo plant, within its little shell, round which, "Life's golden threads in endless circles wind,” borne by the winds to some distant shore, or hidden in the rocky cleft, or buried in the deep vale, slumbers in hope, till spring shall call it forth, life out of death! How like a good man full of honors and of years, "whose flesh shall rest in hope!" Now the Ashen seed with its single, polished oar, sculls * Generally spelled, Flower de luce. + Sweet pepper-bush. |