From Winter into Spring the Year has passed As calm and noiseless as the snow and dew— The pearls and diamonds which adorn his robes— Melt in the morning, when the solar beam Touches the foliage like a glittering wand. Blue is the sky above, the wave below; Slow through the ether glide transparent clouds Just wafted by the breeze, as on the sea White sails are borne in graceful ease along. Lifting its green spears through the hardened ground The grass is seen; though yet no verdant shields, United over head in one bright roof,— Like that which rose above the serried ranks Of Roman legions in the battle plain— Defend it from assailing sun and shower. In guarded spots alone young buds expand, Nor yet on slopes along the Southward sides Of gentle mountains have the flowers unveiled Their maiden blushes to the eyes of Day. It is the season when Fruition fails To smile on Hope, who, lover-like, attends Long-promised joys and distant, dear delights. It is the season when the heart awakes As from deep slumber, and, alive to all The soft, sweet feelings that from lovely forms Like odors float, receives them to itself And fondly garners with a miser’s care, Lest in the busy intercourse of life, They, like untended roses, should retain No fragrant freshness and no dewy bloom. To me the coming of the Spring is dear As to the sailor the first wind from land When, after some long voyage, he descries The far, faint outline of his native coast. Rocked by the wave, when grandly rose the gale, He thought how peaceful was the calm on shore. Rocked by the wave, when died the gale away, He dreamed of quiet he should find at home. So, when I heard the Wintry storm abroad, So, when upon my window beat the rain, Or when I felt the piercing, arrowy frost, Or, looking forth, beheld the frequent snow, Falling as mutely as the steps of Time, I longed for thy glad advent, and resigned My spirit to the gloom that Nature wore, In contemplation of the laughing hours That follow in thy train, delicious Spring! * * * * * PROCRASTINATION. BY MRS. M. H. PARSONS. “To-morrow, I will do it to-morrow,” was the curse of Lucy Clifton’s life. When a child, she always had it in view to make such charming little dresses—to-morrow. When girlhood came her lessons were never perfect,—“only excuse me this once mamma, and I will never put off my lessons again!” The pleader was lovely, and engaging, mamma was weakly indulgent; Lucy was forgiven and the fault grew apace, until she rarely did any thing to-day, that could be put off till to-morrow. She was a wife, and the mother of two children, at the period our story commences.