But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the holly tree,

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.

XXXIII.

LINES TO A FATHER'S MEMORY.

Lost to me, ere my youthful mind
Could estimate thy worth,

Still with my heart-strings thou art twined
My first, best friend on earth!

And what on earth shall e'er efface

Those scenes which memory still can trace,

Still loves to picture forth—

The incidents of early years,

When thou didst smile away my tears?

A parent's love! we do not know

The blessing till 'tis fled;

I seem to love more fondly now,

My father, now thou 'rt dead! Oh, how unwearied was the care Of love, which nothing could impair, Though oft thy heart hath bled; Thy love through every scene the same, Unquench'd, undimm'd, affection's claim!

But I can never shew thee more
The love I feel for thee;

A love I never knew before,

Till thou wert reft from me !

Yet it shall be a sad relief,
A mournful solace to my grief,

To love thy memory;

O never shall thy name depart,
Thou hast a temple in my heart!

And as remembrance keeps her watch
Upon that sacred shrine,

Oh, that my wavering soul may catch

Those virtues that were thine!

To live thy life, to die thy death,

To triumph as I yield my breath,

Thy hopes of glory mine;

Through every change, through every scene, Only to be what thou hast been!

His only friend, his only guide,

On wheels of fire was driven.

And as the chariot swept the sky,
The sacred mantle fell from high,
And to his prayer was given!
The prophet sought eternal rest,
But left below his mystic vest.

My father in thy cloudless sphere,
I know thou canst not grieve,

Or dim thy radiance with a tear,

For those whom thou didst leave;

Yet if thy spirit still can tell

Those forms thou once didst love so well,

To which thy heart did cleave,

My father! oh, my father! shed

From heaven a blessing on my head!

XXXIV.

SONG FOR MAY-DAY.

IT is May! it is May!

And all earth is gay,

For at last old Winter is quite away:
He linger'd a while in his cloak of snow,
To see the delicate primrose blow;

He saw it, and made no longer stay—
And now it is May! it is May!

It is May! it is May!

And we bless the day

When we first delightfully so can say. April had beams amid her showers,

Yet bare were her gardens, and cold her bowers; And her frown would blight, and her smile

betray

But now it is May! it is May!

It is May it is May!

And the slenderest spray

Holds up a few leaves to the ripening ray;

G

And the birds sing fearlessly out on high,

For there is not a cloud in the calm blue sky; And the villagers join their roundelay-For, O! it is May! it is May!

It is May it is May!

And the flowers obey

The beams which alone are more bright than

they :

Up they spring at the touch of the sun,
And opening their sweet eyes, one by one,
In a language of beauty they seem all to say—
And of perfumes-'Tis May! it is May!

It is May! it is May!

And delights, that lay

Chill'd and enchain'd beneath Winter's sway, Break forth again o'er the kindling soul,

And soften and sooth it, and bless it whole :
Oh! thoughts more tender than words convey,
Sigh out-It is May! it is May !