Choice descriptive poetry, selected by a lady

Who loves not spring's voluptuous hours,
The carnival of birds and flowers ?
Yet who would choose, however dear,
That spring should revel all the year ?

Who loves not summer's splendid reign,
The bridal of the earth and main ?
Yet who would choose, however bright,
A dog-day noon without a night?

Who loves not autumn's joyous round,
When corn, and wine, and oil abound ?
Yet who would choose, however gay,
A year of unrenew'd decay?

Who loves not winter's awful form,
The sphere-born music of the storm ?
Yet who would choose, how grand soever,
The shortest day to last for ever ?

MONTGOMERY.

EARLY PIETY.

By cool Siloam's shady rill,

How sweet the lily grows !
How sweet the breath beneath the hill,

Of Sharon's dewy rose !

Lo! such the child whose early feet,

The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,

Is upwards drawn to God !

By cool Siloam's shady rill,

The lily must decay,
The rose that blooms beneath the hill,

Must shortly fade away.

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour,

Of man's maturer age,
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,

And stormy passion's rage!

O Thou, whose infant feet were found

Within thy Father's shrine !
Whose years, with changeless virtue crown'd,

Were all alike Divine.

Dependant on thy bounteous breath,

We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age and death,

To keep us still thine own.

HEBER. HEAVEN OR THE BETTER LAND.

I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother, oh! where is that radiant shore ?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ?

Not there, not there, my child !

Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?

Not there, not there, my child !

Is it far away in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold,
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ;
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?

Not there, not there, my child !

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep song of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair ;
Sorrow and death may not enter there.
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ;
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child !

MRS. HEMANS.

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