Still freely come, still freely go,

And blessings crown thy vigorous wing,
May thy rude flight meet no rude foe,

Delightful messenger of Spring!

ROBERT FRANKLIN.

In Britain there are four species of swallows:-1. The Chimney Swallow, Hirundo rustica, which may be distinguished by its deep forked tail and by reddish plumage on its forehead and under its chin. It builds in chimneys and not unfrequently on rafters in out-houses. It arrives about the middle of April, and disappears in September.-2. The Window Swallow or Martin, H. urbica, has its tail less forked than the preceding, no red spot on the head or chin, and the under part of the body a bright white. Its nest of clay is generally built under the eaves of a house, and has a small hole on one side for entrance. Shakspeare, with his usual happy mode of expression, calls it the " "templehaunting martlet."-Macbeth i., 6. This favourite arrives early in May and leaves us in October.-3. The Sand Martin, H. riparia, the smallest of our swallows, frequents the deep sandy banks of rivers, in the sides of which it makes its nest. It disappears about Michaelmas.-4. The Swift, H. apus, arrives later and departs sooner than any of the tribe. It builds in steeples and towers, under bridges, and sometimes under the tiles of farm-houses. See an admirable article "on the wanton destruction of Swallows," in Loudon's Magazine of Nat. Hist., vol. 3.

Peeping from the East, she brings
Dewdrops on her dusky wings:
And the lark, with wakening lay,
Upsprings, the harbinger of day.

Now behold! the blushing sky
Tells the bridegroom Sun is nigh;
Nature tunes her joyful lyre,
And the trembling stars retire.

Him the East, in crimson drest,
Ushers, nature's welcome guest.
And the mountains of the West
Seem to lift their azure heads,
Jealous of the smiles he sheds.

Glory, beaming from on high,
Charms devotion's lifted eye;

Bliss, to which sluggards ne'er were born.

Waits the attendant of the morn.

MARY M. COLLING.

SPRING.

"They shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water-courses."

LESSONS Sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart;
May I call ye sense or learning,

Instinct pure, or heav'n-taught art?
Be your title what it may,
Sweet the lengthening April day;
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout;
Touch'd by light, with heavenly warning,

Your transporting chords ring out.

Every leaf in every nook,

Every wave in every brook :
Chanting with a solemn voice,

Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary,
Winding shore or deepening glen ;
Where the landscape in its glory

Teaches truth to wandering men.
Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die;
Homely scenes and simple views
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

ISA. xliv.

Tho' the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile;

But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing smile.
Thus I learn contentment's power,
From the slighted willow bower;
Ready to give thanks and live
On the least Heav'n may give.

If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stony vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving

For the shades I leave behind.
By the dusty wayside drear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer,
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultur'd grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining,
Of the greenest, darkest tree;
There they plunge, the light declining,
All may hear, but none may see.

Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof:

So they live in modest ways,
Trust entire and ceaseless praise.

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE Field Flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildlings of Nature, I doat upon you,

For ye waft me to Summers of old,

When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note, Made music that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildlings of June;
Of old ruinous castles ye tell;

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Ev'n now what affections the violet awakes!
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore !

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks
In the vetches that tangled their shore!

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,

And I wish you to grow

to my

tomb.

CAMPBELL.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,
Mingle with her thou lovest in fields of light;
And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold,
Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky,
Expand and shut with silent ecstacy!

-Yet wert thou once a worm; a thing, that crept
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb, and slept !
And such is man; soon from his cell of clay

To burst a seraph, in the blaze of day!

ROGERS.

It has been beautifully observed, that the Chrysalis is the cradle of the Butterfly, at the very moment it becomes the tomb of the Caterpillar.

HYMN.

THERE's not a leaf within the bower;
There's not a bird upon the tree;
There's not a dewdrop on the flower;
But bears the impress, Lord! of thee.

Thy hand the varied leaf design'd,

And gave the bird its thrilling tone;
Thy power the dewdrop's tints combin'd,
Till like a diamond's blaze they shone.

Yes: dewdrop, leaves, and buds, and all,
The smallest, like the greatest things;
The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball,
Alike proclaim thee King of kings.