MAY.

On the merry May has pleasant hours,

And dreamily they glide,

As if they floated like the leaves

Upon a silver tide.

The trees are full of crimson buds,
And the woods are full of birds,

And the waters flow to music

Like a tune with pleasant words.

The verdure of the meadow-land

Is creeping to the hills,

The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets
Are blooming by the rills;

The lilac has a load of balm

For every wind that stirs,

And the larch stands green and beautiful

Amid the sombre firs.

There's perfume upon every wind

Music in every tree

Dews for the moisture-loving flowers

Sweets for the sucking bee;

The sick come forth for the healing breeze,

The young are gathering flowers;

And life is a tale of poetry,

That is told by golden hours.

If 'tis not true philosophy,

That the spirit when set free Still lingers about its olden home,

In the flower and the tree,

It is very strange that our pulses thrill At the tint of a voiceless thing,

And our hearts yearn so with tenderness In the beautiful time of Spring.

ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM.

SHE stood up in the meekness of a heart
Resting on God, and held her fair young child
Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes
Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone
To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven.
The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips
Of the good man glowed fervently with faith
That it would be, even as he had pray'd,
And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold
Of Jesus. As the holy words went on
Her lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tears,
Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon

The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft

P

With the baptismal water. Then I thought
That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears
Would be a deeper covenant, which sin

And the temptations of the world, and death,

Would leave unbroken, and that she would know

In the clear light of heaven, how very strong

The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been In leading its young spirit up to God.