ON THE FOLLY OF MELANCHOLY.

VERILY this is a lovely world; - the sun shines the flowers look up and smile—the birds sing for very gladness of heart; -- why does man, only, go about with a weight on his spirit, and a cloud on his brow, finding matter for lamentation in every leaf that fades in every rose that withers?

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Why should we mourn thus with a never ending complaint? Ask we for riches? Does not the green earth teem with wealth? Is not the air redolent of joy? Does not the sky rain down plenteousness? Do not the brooklets gush out with pleasant music? And is there not a whole world of beauty and sweetness in every wild flower that trails its light stem over the hedge-row? Can a man walk through the meadows, and down the fragrant lanes that skirt his village home, on a fair summer evening, and say that the world is all darkness, and mortal life all sorrow?

Why do we mourn for the absent? This, indeed, is folly ineffable; we enjoyed our intercourse with them; the bright smile, and the fond familiar words, sweetened many a passing hour, and taste and talent, it may be, lightened many a weary one. What, then? Did we enjoy the precious boon, forgetting that of all earth's precious things, that of congenial companionship is the most fleeting, more fragile than the April rose-than the morning gossamer? Time, circumstance, death, all conspire to render it so: but shall we, therefore, go ever on our way, mourn ing? Perhaps they, at whose absence we so repine, have already forgotten us have framed new connexions: if so, our tears are indeed a vain folly, and we ourselves but silly sorrowers over one of the inevitable evils of life.

Do we pine for the dead? Shall we sorrow because, a little earlier than ourselves, they have escaped the toil and fret of life, the cares that weary, and the regrets that lacerate, and the experience that chills? Shall we mourn, because those who were, perhaps, dearer to us than life itself, are sooner become denizens of that bright home whence every grief is banished? Passed away from our mortal sight, have they not awakened to new life, and are

they wholly lost to us? Ah, no! They come in holy bands, watching round us while we sleep; theirs are the sweet voices that whisper in dreams of peace, and hope, and repose theirs is the sweet presence that is about us in our evening path, when the noise of day is hushed, and the busy world is excluded from our thoughts, they are with us then, making the air holy, and our own hearts as temples of pure worship; shall we mourn, then, because they cannot, like us, return to the trifling cares, and little vexations of this lower world?

No. We will rather repress our own vain and selfish murmurs; and, passing lightly over the present that present which, even while we speak of it, sinks silently into the past, and becomes, for us, a mere name, a memory - we will fix our earnest

thoughts, our deeper hopes on that which is to come; and, while pursuing our path towards it, instead of complaining that briars and thorns encompass the way, that the sky lours, and that even the bird's song is a melancholy wail, we will pluck such few blossoms as brighten the path—we will listen to the songster's gladdest outpourings, and treasure every sunbeam, however fleeting and rare,and thus go on our way rejoicing.

Anonymous.

THE WINTRY MAY- 1837.

WHEN Summer faded last away,
I sigh'd o'er every shortening day;
Comparing with its pale-hued flowers
My wither'd hopes, and number'd hours,
And thinking - "Shall I ever see

That Summer sun renew'd for me?"

When Autumn shed her foliage sere,
Methought I could have dropt a tear,
With every shrivell'd leaf that fell,
And frost-nipp'd blossom. "Who can tell,
When leaves again clothe shrub and tree,"
Whisper'd a voice-" Where thou wilt be?"

But when old Winter's rule severe
Set in triumphant- dark and drear;
Though shrinking from the bitter blast,
Methought"This worst once overpast,

With balmy, blessèd spring, may be

A short revival yet for me.'

And this is May - but where, oh! where,
The balmy breath, the perfumed air
I pined for, while my weary sprite,
Languish'd away the long, long night,
Living on dreams of roving free
By primrose bank, and cowslip lea?

Unkindly season! cruel Spring!
To the sick wretch no balm ye bring;
No herald-gleam of Summer days,
Reviving, vivifying rays-

Seasons to come may brighter be

But Time-Life — Hope-run short with me.

Yet therefore faint not, fearful heart!
Look up and learn “the better part,"
That shall outlast Life's little day
Seek peace that passeth not away:
Look to the land where God shall be

Life Light yea — All in All to thee.

Anonymous.