SONG. 'Twas not when early flowers were springing, And wheat was green, And birds of love were singing, That first I loved thee, or that thou For when the silent woods had faded When fields were fallow, And the changed skies o'ershaded, Or passed with Summer's songs away. "Twas WINTER: cares and clouds were round me, And sunny hours, When Love unguarded found me, Dear are the hours of Summer weather, And hearts are light, And Love and Nature joy together. J. CONDER. The evergreen trees with their beautiful cones, such as firs and pines, are now particularly observed and valued the different species of everlasting flowers, so pleasing an ornament to our parlours in winter, and indeed during the whole year, also attract our attention. The oak, the beech, and the hornbeam, in part retain their leaves: while other trees are entirely denuded of their beautiful dress, their leafy honours' being strewed in the dust, and returned to their parent earth; yet some attractions are still left as a promise of future beauty. The scarlet berries of the common holly, and the Pyracanthus, with its bunches of fiery berries on its dark green thorny sprays, solicit our attention-while numerous tribes of mosses will afford sufficient amusement and occupation for the inquiring botanist,--and the poet's lyre, vibrating with melancholy but soothing harmony, records the fall of the few remaining withered leaves that flutter about him in his noonday walk. The LAST LEAF. Thou flickering solitary leaf That hang'st on yonder blighted tree, A withered, sapless, lifeless form, Lost, too, for me is beauty's bloom; Yet, ah! while many a moistened eye Nor drops one tear for me! Literary Gazette. Towards the end of the month, woodcocks and snipes become the prey of the fowler. The jack-snipe (Scolopax gallinula), which visits us at this period, is a decided species, with marked and singular habits. See T.T. for 1824, p. 319. The insect-swarms, which delighted us with their ceaseless hum, their varied tints, and beautiful forms, during the summer and autumnal months, are retired to their winter quarters, and remain in a state of torpidity, till awakened by the enlivening warmth of spring. It is generally supposed by the farmer' (observes the ingenious author of the British Entomology') that severe frosts destroy insects; it is also no uncommon practice to manure the ground with injured turnips, and various other decayed vegetable substances, which, no doubt, frequently con See a Paper by Mr. SAMOUELLE, in the Circulator, vol. i, page 179. tain the eggs and pupa of the very insects that will, in all probability, tend to destroy the next year's crop: this certainly shows an ignorance for which the farmer often suffers severely, and which might, in a great measure, be avoided by a better acquaintance with the manners and habits of insects.' In mild seasons, some few flowers may be culled from the waning stores of the garden, even in the dreary month of December. This circumstance has not escaped the poet of Woodbridge, and has given rise to the following beautiful effusion: To a SPRIG of MIGNONETTE. The ling'ring perfume of thy flow'r, To me thy yet surviving bloom And ling'ring sweetness can recall And fling a holier charm around Than prosp'rous hours could ever know; Than that which Patience lends to Woe! BARTON'S Poetic Vigils. Severe and rigorous as WINTER usually is, its various scenes, however, cannot fail to suggest many subjects of gratitude to the contemplative philosopher. Few minds are so devoid of sensibility, as not to experience the most grateful emotions, when the inexhaustible bounties of the Supreme Being bloom around in Spring, in beautiful profusion; delight the eye in Summer with maturing promise; and ripen in Autumn into rich and exquisite perfection. The recollection, too, of the frowning skies of Winter will make us rejoice in the return of that Spring, in whose flowery walks, if perpetual, we should have trod with languor and indifference. More cheerily will the heart then dance to the music of the groves, when it recollects how recently their tuneful haunts were dumb. Brighter, then, will be the verdant robes which the woods assume, contrasted with their late leafless and inhospitable appearance; and, as 'hope waits upon the flowery prime,' the fruits and flowers, when they bud, will delight the fancy, in sweet anticipation, with all the pride of Summer, and all the riches of Autumn. The rigours of departed winter will be forgotten in that all-enlivening renovation of Nature. In fine, our hearts, then attuned to cheerfulness and gaiety, will confess this important truth, that, as Providence has made the human soul an active being, always impatient for novelty, and struggling for something yet unenjoyed with unwearied progression, the world seems to have been entirely adapted to this disposition of the mind: it is formed to raise expectation by constant vicissitudes, and to obviate satiety by perpetual change.' With rapid wing, in ceaseless flight, TIME Sweeps along, and leaves in night, And when in ruin they have rent 'Weak worm! thou, too, shalt be as they; Hope faithless find its splendid trust, Thy pride claim kindred with the dust; As fast and forward flies his car, The ruin which his wrath has willed. The' assault of earthquake, cloud, and surge; And pestilence and fever's flame Suck up the breath, or fire the frame. The rich sun of delight goes down In his annihilating frown, And we but add-of things destroyed, WIFFEN's Julia Alpinula. |