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When winter's cold tempests and shows are no more,

Green meadows and brown.furrow'd fields re-appearing, The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,

And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering, When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing;

When red grow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, O then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring!

And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.

Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring;

Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather; The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,

And spicewood and sassafras budding together; O then to your gardens, ye bousewives, repair !

Your walks border up; sow and plant at your leisure ; The Blue-bird will chaunt from his box such an air,

That all your liard toils will seein truly a pleasure.

+ We extract these beautiful lines, descriptire of the American Blue.Birby from the splendid work entitled “ American Ornithology," by our townsmat Alexander Wilson, author of " Watty and Meg," &c. It has been remark ed in a work of high respectability, that “ the poetical description of the Blue-Bird presents a very animated and pleasing picture of American scenery and seasons, while the slight tincture of Scottish expression which occasionally appears, adds to the nairete of the diction."

He fits through the orchard, he visits each tree,

The red flowering peach and the apples' sweet blossoms; He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms; He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,

The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter ; His song and his services freely are ours,

And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.

The ploughman is pleas'd when he gleans in his train,

Now searching the furrows,--now mounting to cheer him; The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,

And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; The slow ling'ring school-boys forget they'll be chid,

While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em, In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,

That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

When all the gay scenes of the suinmer are o'er,

And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow, ; And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before,

Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow; The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,

Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow, Till forc'd by the horrors of winter to roam,

He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.

While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,

The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,

Or love's native music have influence to charm,

Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given ; Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;

His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure; For thro' bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,

He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!



Round Love's Elysian bowers

The softest prospects rise ;
There bloom the sweetest flowers,

There shine the purest skies :
And joy and rapture gild awhile
The cloudless heaven of Beauty's smile.

* The writer of this song, James Montgomery, one of our most esteemed living poets, was born at Irvine, Ayrshire, in the year 1771, but was not fated for any length of time to inhale the same air as his countryman Robert Burns, having been placed, when only five years of age, by his father, who was a Moravian Missionary, in a Seminary of his own persuasion, at Fulnick in Yorkshire. The young poet, being here secluded from all intercourse with the world, though naturally active in his disposition, assumed an air of thoughtfulness and melancholy, read with avidity all the poetry which came

Round Love's deserted bowers.

Tremendous rocks arise ;
Cold mildews blight the flowers,

Tornadoes rend the skies:
And pleasures waning moon goes down
Amid the night of Beauty's frown.

Then, youth, thou fond believer,

The wily tyrant shun;
Who trusts the dear deceiver,

Will surely be undone !
When Beauty triumphs, ah! beware!
Her smile is hope her frown despair !

within his reach, and brooding with fondness over the reveries they engendered, filled a small volume with his own compositions before he was ten years of age. The Moravians intended him for the ministry, but, from his wayward and poetical fancies, they found it impracticable, and were consequently obliged to relinquish their long cherished hopes of seeing him a mimister ; however, not abandoning altogether their parental duties, they en. gaged him to a shopkeeper in Wakefield. His restless ambition soon gave him a dislike for this employment, and after being fifteen months with one Inaster, and one year with another, he, in 1787, and when only sixteen years of age, set off for London, in hopes of realising, by the efforts of his pen, his long cherished dreams of wealth and fame; very soon, however, like many others in similar circunstances, he was disappointed, and in a short time left Innuon for Sheffield. Here he engaged with Mr. Gale, the editor of the Shetfiell Register, to assist him in conducting that paper, but Mr. Gale, in Tim, being obliged to leave England, to avoid a political prosecution, Mr. Montgomery has carried on the paper since that time, under the name of the “ Iris.” Independently of the laborious and constant attention which this situation requires, he has found leisure to compose .. The Work before the Fbod" _ The West Indies" The Wanderer of Switzerland" " Grenland"-poems of great excellence, besides a number of smaller pro. sfactious.



The warrior came down from his tent on the hill,

To woo in the vale of Cashmere : “ Ah! nay,”- cried the maid, with forebodings of ill,

And she shrank from love's profer in fear;
But the young mountaineer would not sọ be denied,

He scoff'd at her tremulous “ Nay;"
And clasping the maid-spurr'd his courser-and cried,

“ Away--to the mountain--away!"

Her home on the mountain was stormy and wild,

Unlike the hush'd bowers of Cashinere-
Yet the fair, when she gaz'd on her wedded one, smildly

And love planted paradise there;
Pastarongs, if recall’d, were but nam'd as a jest,

From a cloud e'en as dawneth the day-
And the warrior's wild words by remembrance were blest,

Away--to the mountain--away!"

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