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Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers.-Drummond.

THIS day dame Nature seem'd in love:
The lusty sap began to move;

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines,
The jealous trout that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled fly.
Already were the eaves possess'd
With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest:
The groves already did rejoice,
In Philomel's triumphing voice:

The showers were short, the weather mild,

The morning fresh, the evening smil'd.
Joan takes her neat rubb'd pail, and now

She trips to milk the sand-red cow.

The fields and gardens were beset

With tulips, crocus, violet;

And now, though late, the modest rose

Did more than half a blush disclose.

Thus all looks gay and full of cheer,

To welcome the new livery'd year.-Sir Henry Wotton.

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours

Of winters past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
The Nightingale.

Under the Protection of Venus.

Ridens; quam Jocus circumvolat, et Cupido.-Horace.

ON Cytherea's day,

O'er Idalia's velvet green

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen;

Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay :
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wings her easy way:
O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move

The bloom of young desire and purple light of love.

АH me! for aught that ever I could read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth :

But, either it was different in blood,

Or else misgraffed, in respect of years,

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it;
Making it momentany as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;

Brief as the lightning in the collied night,

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,

And ere a man hath power to say,—Behold!

The jaws of darkness do devour it up:

So quick bright things come to confusion.-Shakspeare.

O RUSTIC herald of the Spring!
At length in yonder woody vale,
Fast by the brook I hear thee sing,
And studious of thy homely tale,
Amid the vespers of the grove,
Amid the chanting choir of love,

Thy sage responses hail.-The Cuckoo.-Akenside.

Next came fresh April, wanton as a kid.---Spenser.

APRIL, at whose glad coming Zephyrs rise

With whisper'd sighs,

Then on their light wing 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, 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.

Sweet month! it is when thou dost come again,

That love is fain

With gentlest breath the fires to wake,

That covered up and slumbering lay,

Through many a day.—Belleau.

UPON his breast a bloody Cross he bore,

The dear remembrance of his dying LORD,
For whose sweet sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead (as living) ever him adored :
Upon his shield the like was also scored :

His

angry steed did chide his foaming bit;
As, much disdaining to the curb to yield :
Full jolly Knight he seem'd, and fair did sit,
As one for knightly justs and fierce encounters fit.

Enforc'd to seek some covert nigh at hand,
A shady grove not far away he spied,
That promis'd aid the tempest to withstand:
Whose lofty trees, yclad with summer's pride,
Did spread so broad, that heaven's light did hide
The sailing pine, the cedar proud and tall,

The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry,

The builder oak, sole king of forests all,

The aspin, good for staves, the cypress funeral.

The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors
And poets sage; the fir that weepeth still;
The willow, worn of forlorn paramours;
The yew, obedient to the bender's will;
The birch for shafts; the sallow for the mill;
The myrrh sweet, bleeding in the bitter wound;
The warlike beech; the ash for nothing ill;
The fruitful olive, and the platane round;

;

The carver holm; the maple seldom inward sound.

The Groves of Errour.-Spenser.

Rise up, my love, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.---Song of Solomon.

Day.

Births.

Deaths.

Cal. Sir John Suckling, 1613, Wi- Abp. Celsus, 1129. Armagh.

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Obits of the Latin Church. St. Melito (surnamed the Prophet), Bp. of Sardes, in Lydia, 2nd Century.

James, Lord Audley, 1386.
Stilton.

Tamerlane, 1405. d. Otrar-
upon-Sihon.

Robert III. (of Scotland), 1406.
Paisley.

Henry de Montmorency, 1614.
Archi(bald) Armstrong, 1672.

buried, Arthuret.
John Burchard Mencke, 1732.
d. Leipsic.
Dr. John Langhorne, 1779. d.
Blagdon.

Hilary Rouelle, 1779. d. Paris.
John Lewis Lombard, 1794.
Dr. Isaac Milner, 1820.

A wise man's heart is at his right side; but a fool's heart at his left. Surely a serpent will bite without enchantment; and a babbler is no better. A fool St. Hugh, Bishop of Grenoble, also is full of words: a man I cannot tell what shall be. Solomon.

d. 1132.

St. Gilbert, Bishop in Scotland,

d. 1240.

I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all. Ecclesiastes.

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