Here paused the speaker, and then said,

'My friends, you've listened well !— So, therefore, at some future eve

The sequel tale I'll tell,

'All pregnant with the bridal veil,
The orange wreath and bride ;

And bouquets choice of fresh-cut flowers;
With friends from far and wide.

'But now, I see good company !—
The hour is rather late!-

So, think it right to say, good-night!
And hie me home to Kate.'

Then all arose with one accord;

And, as by one consent,

Gave thanks unto their aged friend ;—

And likewise homeward went.

AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE IN THE SPRING.

OUR England in the springtide

Is cold and winterly ;

Yet then the starlike primrose,

With all its witchery,

To brighten with its presence,

Like sunshine light, the gloom.Then, too, the little daisy,

Snow-white, with eye of gold, On sunny banks of greensward Once more we may behold; And, mid the shelter of the grass, Nigh hidden from our view,

That modest flower of rarest scent,
The violet, peepeth through.
So, though full oft the heavens
Show scarce a sign of blue,
While north-east winds are piping
To skies of dull gray hue;
Yet, mindful of the winter,

With joy we hail the green,
Of hedgerows, trees, and meadows,
Which now adorn the scene.
Ay, lovely is our landscape
To cheer the hearts of men,
With beauty of its moorlands,
Its rivers, meads, and glen !—
Come, let us from a hilltop

Look down the Vale of Rye

To yonder heights of Hambleton,

Soft blue against the sky;

While nearer home the moorlands,

With ling and heather brown, Have nestling in their valleys, Some village or a town.—

Then undulating hilltops

Stand forth conspicuously,
Upon their crests a farmstead,
A flock or rookery ;-
While fallow fields, all ruddy,

And meadows green and fair,
Descend therefrom with hedgerows,
Like strings of emeralds rare.
And next to these stand forest trees,
All verdant, close together,
Contrasting with their foliage

The dark-blue hills and heather.Then comes the long, wide valley, With fields of springing corn, And here and there at intervals The blossoms of a thorn, Pure white amid the hedges, Like crests of fleecy foam, Oft seen as caps on billows, Where stormy winds do roam.

Next, pastures thick with cattle,

With here and there a farm, Or pretty, red-tiled village,

With church and spire and barn, All mingled sweetly mid the trees, Nigh hidden from our sight, Yet forming thus a beauteous scene That thrills one with delight ;And at our feet a ploughman Is busy with his team, Preparing for the sowing

Of later crops, I ween!

His furrows brown are dotted

With troops of hungry crows; Which follow fast the ploughshare, Wherever that it goes;

Intent on juicy morsels,

Of beetles, grubs, and worms, Wherewith to feed their young ones,

Who wait their quick returns.—

And in that seed-field yonder

A noble flock of sheep

Are nibbling mid the clover,

While lambs in frolics leap.—

How graceful, too, those ash-trees, Just out in gala dress !

They show full well from hither,

In all their loveliness;

With those grand, gnarlèd oak-trees

At intervals between ;

Whose sprays of tender foliage

From bronze are turning green.

And mid it all the river,

The pleasant river Rye !— Flows onward like a mirror, Reflects the sunny sky;

Now flecked with many cloudlets,

Like ships unto the view, Which sail along in beauty,

Toward the hilltops blue.

There in that far-off distance

They rest, that white-sail'd fleet !— Above the earth so lovely,

So close it seems to meet.

Now, on the gentle breezes,

Which round about us blow, We hear the songs of throstles Alternate, ebb, and flow.

The blackbirds, too, and cuckoos

Give forth their dulcet notes; Whilst round about the swallow,

Delightful stranger, floats;