Each little flower he's made his own, Not one to future bards resigning; From buttercup, that stands alone, To jasmine round a door-post twining. To try on such a theme to sing Were only labour lost indeed; So well has Thomson touched the Spring, Succeeding poets can't succeed. Shall I describe the tender bean, Turning its head with caution round, As if half-fearful to be seen Bursting so early from the ground? Or shall I sing the parsley mild, Nipped by the cold autumnal frost; Like a well-meaning forward child, In its advances sternly crossed? No! let me inspiration seek Where villagers, in cheerful clump, With health bedecking ev'ry cheek, Are clustering round the local pump. That pump which, e'en as memory's tear Gives freshness to a heart that's saddish, By pouring out its liquid clear, Revives once more the drooping radish. Or shall I sing that nice spring-van, By pleasure-parties often sought, When they're in treaty with a man To drive them down to Hampton Court? To-day a cargo of the fair, To-morrow moving goods its duty; That van must its allegiance share 'Twixt furniture and female beauty. THE BLIGHTED ASH. A STORY OF A SEARED BOSOM. It was May! the merry month of May, and bees from flower to flower did melodiously hum, when a traveller, wrapped in an old weather-stricken Macintosh, wound down the little hill that enters the little village of Somerton. The old clock had just struck the hour of sunset, and the lark retired to his nest; the screech-owl was beginning to tune his voice for his nocturnal screeching; while the bat, wrapped in contemplation, kept his keen eye steadily fixed on the setting sun, which had begun to gild the highest peak of the distant mountains. Alas! it is ever thus: man in his haughty pride, like the mountain holding its head high above those by which it is surrounded, only acknowledges the smile when it is too late to take advantage of the warmth; or, to use a more homely illustration, we cherish the ray, though we may have neglected the meridian.