29. Merry, ever merry May! Made of sun-gleams, shades, and showers, Bursting buds, and breathing flowers; Dripping-lock'd, and rosy-vested, Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested, Girdled with the eglantine, Festoon'd with the flowering vine! GALLAGHER. 30. When the warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the year, On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. SHELLEY. 31. When the angel of dread _Winter_ cometh, But not in anger. As he speeds along, Borne on the chilling wind, he bids appear A thousand varied hues the trees among! What magic beauty doth his presence fling Round every leaf that quivers in the dell, Or shrub that to the mountain side doth cling! And the bright scene the calm lake mirrors well, As if within its depths were wove some golden spell. H. F. HARRINGTON. 32. Delicious Spring! Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers, Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing From odorous buds of light-enfolded flowers, And from enmassed bowers, That over grassy walks their greenness fling. ALBERT PIKE. 33. The Summer, the radiant Summer's the fairest, For green woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers, For waters and fruits, and for flowers the rarest, And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers. MARY HOWITT. 34. When _September's_ golden day, Serenely still, intensely bright, Fades on the umber'd hills away And melts into the coming night. MRS. WHITMAN. 35. When Autumn chills the foliage, and sheds O'er the piled leaves, among the evergreens, All colors and all tints to grace the scene. RUFUS DAWES. 36. Ho! jewel-keeper of the hoary North! Whence hast thou all thy treasures? Why, the mines Of rich Golconda, since the world was young, Would fail to furnish such a glorious show! Yes, the _Wintry_ king, So long decried, hath revenue more rich Than sparkling diamonds! MRS. SIGOURNEY. 37. When _Spring_ From sunny slopes comes wandering, Calling violets from the sleep, That bound them under the snow-drift deep, To open their childlike, asking eyes On the new summer paradise. J. R. LOWELL. 38. Autumn! how lovely is thy pensive air! But chief the sounds from thy reft woods delight; Their deep, low murmurs to the soul impart A solemn stillness. MRS. TIGHE--_Psyche._