58. Wasting his life for his country's care, Laying it down with a patriot's prayer. BARRY CORNWALL. 59. A man whose sober soul can tell How to wear her garments well, Her garments that upon her sit As garments should do, close and fit; A well-clothed soul, that's not oppress'd Nor choked with what she should be dress'd; A soul sheath'd in a crystal shrine, Through which all her bright features shine. CRASHAW. 60. And still we gaze, and still the wonder grows, That one small head can carry all he knows. GOLDSMITH--_Deserted Village_. WHAT SEASON OF THE YEAR DO YOU LOVE? January gray is here, Like a sexton by a grave; February bears the bier, March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps; but oh, ye hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers. SHELLEY. The seasons of the year, ----some arm'd in silver ice that glisten, And some in gaudy green, come in like masquers. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. WHAT SEASON OF THE YEAR DO YOU LOVE? 1. The bold _March_ wind! The merry, boisterous, bold March wind! Who in the violet's tender eyes Casts a kiss,--and forward flies. BARRY CORNWALL. 2. The beautiful spirit of _Spring_, When the demons of Winter before her fly, While the gentle fan of her delicate wing Repels the ardor of Summer's eye. JAMES NACK. 3. Thou lovest the merry _Summer_ months of beauty, song, and flowers, Thou lovest the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers! Up, up, thy heart, and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside, Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide, Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity. MOTHERWELL. 4. The _eventide of Summer_, when the trees Yield their fresh honors to the passing breeze, And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed; When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds. MRS. E. C. EMBURY. 5. When on the breath of _Autumn_ breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair white thistle-down. MARY HOWITT. 6. A day of _Winter_ beauty. Through the night The hoar-frost gather'd o'er each leaf and spray, Weaving its filmy net-work, thin and bright, And shimmering like silver in the ray Of the soft sunny morning;--turf and tree Prank'd in delicate embroidery, And every wither'd stump and mossy stone With gems encrusted and with seed-pearls sown! MRS. WHITMAN.