Last month direct reference was made by our contributors to the beauties of May. Poets have felt the inspiration of the season from the first, and all the beauties and all the odors of the month have seemed transfused to their verse, rich in metrical excellence, and redolent of the sweets it embalmed. But we have taken a range among the hills and valleys, and, unable to express in poetry those sentiments which the season inspired, we must, though a month later, appeal to humble prose, and make a record of what we saw and felt, with no hope of suggesting high thoughts to others, or of awakening that feeling which, in the gifted and the good, may be aroused by eloquence. The chill of April winds does not prevent the greenness of herbage which the fecundating power of April rains provokes. And hidden in among the relics of last year’s vegetation, and the nascent herbage of young spring, little flowers had nestled away; little, but beautiful flowers, decorating the narrow space between the new-born child and the dead parent. I plucked a few of those modest gems, almost afraid that I desecrated the altar of Nature, in thus taking its scanty decorations; but they did their office, since they awakened in me a remembrance of Him whose hand planted the towering oak that makes the forest majestic, and whose fingers scattered the seed that produced these minute ministers of his will, these records of his omnipotence and omnipresence. “All things are full of God”—it is the language of the heathen poet, it is the language of divine inspiration, it is the language of the heart touched with the truths of Nature, and connecting them with Nature’s Author. “Hill and dale are of thy dressing.” And as I stood in the dale, amid the delicate outpouring of the beauties there, and looked upward to the hills studded with the time-marked trees, I said to myself, “Here is that volume of truth that speaks of the unknown, yet not unreverenced, God, whose will and providence are revealed in the volume of inspiration.” I had, almost insensibly, got within the enclosure of a burying-ground, which is situated near the Frankford Road, only a few miles from the city, and was transferring my thoughts from the beautiful objects of Nature to the specimens of human ingenuity that transmit the date of birth and death, with the name of the mortal, from one generation to the other. No one, I believe, passes through a burying-ground without pausing to read the little story, and thinking over the events which marked the life of the deceased. It is good when standing thus to think that he who is below was of like passions with ourselves—that he had all the social and domestic feelings which we possess, and was influenced by the events of life as we are. What a world do we animate when we thus think of each individual—thus place him in connection with social, domestic, political life. How we multiply interests, augment joys, and increase the pangs to which human existence is liable.