And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see, As fade thy beauties, all the vanity Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay In his short winter, bury beauty's frame, In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same. TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. Bird of the lone and joyless night-- Whence is thy sad and solemn lay? Attendant on the pale moon's light, Why shun the garish blaze of day? When darkness fills the dewy air, Nor sounds the song of happier bird, Alone amid the silence there Thy wild and plaintive note is heard. Thyself unseen--thy pensive moan Poured in no loving comrade's ear-- The forest's shaded depths alone That mournful melody can hear. Beside what still and secret spring, In what dark wood, the livelong day, Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away. Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me, That life's deceitful gleam is vain; And well the lesson profits thee, Who will not trust its charms again! Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill, To listening night when mirth is o'er: I, heedless of the warning, still Believe, to be deceived once more! CHANSONETTE. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. They are mockery all, those skies! those skies! Their untroubled depths of blue; They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes! Which seem so warm and true; Each quiet star in the one that lies, Each meteor glance that at random flies The other's lashes through. They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring, Which her airs so softly woo; And the love to which we would madly cling, Ay! it is mockery too. For the winds are false which the perfume stir, And the lips deceive to which we sue, And love but leads to the sepulchre; Which flowers spring to strew. THE CLOUDS. BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN. The clouds have their own language unto me They have told many a tale in by-gone days, At twilight's hour, when gentle reverie Steals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish fays With their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass, And leave their storied circles where they pass. So, even so, to me the embracing clouds, With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here; And from the tempest-gathered fold that shrouds The darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear, And sunny brightness of yon arching sky, They have their language and their melody. Have you not felt it when the dropping rain From the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earth With its unnumbered offspring? felt not when The conquering sun hath proudly struggled forth In misty radiance, until cloud and spot Were blended in one brightness? Can you not