Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon,
Or draw the fixed stars from their eminence,
And still the midnight tempest; then, anon,
Tell of uncharnelled spectres, seen to glide
Along the lone wood's unfrequented path,
Startling the nighted traveller; while the sound
Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come
From the dark centre of the deepening glen,
Struck on his frozen ear.

APRIL.

H. K. WHITE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF REMY BELLEAU.

APRIL! sweet month, the daintiest of all,
Fair thee befall:

April! fond hope of fruits that lie
In buds of swathing cotton wrapt,
There closely lapt,

Nursing their tender infancy.

April! that dost thy yellow, green, and blue,
Around thee strew,

When, as thou go'st, the grassy floor
Is with a million flowers depaint,

Whose colours quaint

Have diaper'd the meadows o'er.

April! at whose glad coming zephyrs rise

With whisper'd sighs,

Then on their light wings brush away, And hang amid the woodlands fresh Their aery mesh,

To tangle Flora on her way.

April! it is thy hand that doth unlock,
From plain and rock,

Odours and hues, a balmy store,

That breathing lie on Nature's breast,
So richly blest,

That earth or heaven can ask no more.

April! thy blooms, amid the tresses laid
Of my sweet maid,

Adown her neck and bosom flow;
And in a wild profusion there,

Her shining hair

With them hath blent a golden glow.

April! the dimpled smiles, the playful grace,
That in the face

Of Cytherea haunt, are thine;

And thine the breath, that, from the skies,
The deities

Inhale, an offering at thy shrine.

'Tis thou that dost with summons blythe and soft, High up aloft,

From banishment these heralds bring, These swallows, that along the air

Send swift, and bear

Glad tidings of the merry spring.

April! the hawthorn and the eglantine,
Purple woodbine,

Streak'd pink, and lily-cup and rose,
And thyme, and marjoram, are spreading,
Where thou art treading,

And their sweet eyes for thee unclose.

The little nightingale sits singing aye
On leafy spray,

And in her fitful strain doth run
A thousand and a thousand changes,
With voice that ranges

Through every sweet division.

April! it is when thou dost come again,
That love is fain

With gentlest breath the fires to wake,
That cover'd up and slumbering lay,
Through many a day,

When winter's chill our veins did slake.

Sweet month, thou seest at this jocund prime
Of the spring time,

The hives pour out their lusty young,
And hear'st the yellow bees that ply,
With laden thigh,

Murmuring the flow'ry wilds among.

MAY shall with pomp his wavy wealth unfold, His fruits of gold,

His fertilizing dews, that swell

In manna on each spike and stem,
And like a gem,

Red honey in the waxen cell.

Who will may praise him, but my voice shall be,

Sweet month, for thee;

Thou that to her do'st owe thy name, Who saw the sea-wave's foamy tide

Swell and divide,

Whence forth to life and light she came.

AN APRIL DAY.

ALL day the low-hung clouds have dropt
Their garnered fulness down;
All day that soft gray mist hath wrapt
Hill, valley, grove, and town.
There has not been a sound to-day
To break the calm of nature;
Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life or living creature;
Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing;

I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.
I stood to hear,-I love it well,-
The rain's continuous sound,
Small drops, but thick and fast, they fell,
Down straight into the ground.

For leafy thickness is not yet

Earth's naked breast to screen, Though every dripping branch is set With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn,

Those honeysuckle buds

Have swelled to double growth; that thorn

Hath put forth larger studs;

That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,

The milkwhite flowers revealing;

Even now, upon my senses first

Methinks their sweets are stealing.

The very earth, the steamy air,
Is all with fragrance rife;
And grace and beauty every where
Are flushing into life.

Down, down they come-those fruitful stores! Those earth-rejoicing drops!

A momentary deluge pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops;
And ere the dimples on the stream
Have circled out of sight,

Lo! from the west, a parting gleam
Breaks forth of amber light.
But yet behold, abrupt and loud,
Comes down the glittering rain;
The farewell of a passing cloud,
The fringes of her train.

TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

"WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teem'd her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that show'r
That mars a flow'r;

Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warp'd as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.