THE APRIL SHOWER.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

THE April rain! the April rain!
I hear the pleasant sound,
Now soft and still, like gentle dew,

Now drenching all the ground.

Pray tell me why an April shower
Is pleasanter to see

Than falling drops of other rain?

I'm sure it is to me.

I wonder if 'tis really so,

Or only Hope, the while,

That tells of swelling buds and flowers,

And Summer's coming smile: Whate'er it is, the April shower

Makes me a child again;

I feel a rush of youthful blood,
As falls the April rain.

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THE APRIL SHOWER.

And sure, were I a little bulb,
Within the darksome ground,
I should love to hear the April rain
So softly falling round;
Or any tiny flower were I,
By Nature swaddled up,
How pleasantly the April shower
Would bathe my hidden cup!

The small brown seed that rattled down
On the cold autumnal earth,

Is bursting from its cerements forth,

Rejoicing in its birth;

The slender spears of pale green grass

Are smiling in the light;

The clover opes its folded leaves,

As though it felt delight.

The robin sings on the leafless tree,
And upward turns his eye,

As if he loved to see the drops

Come filtering down the sky;

No doubt he longs the bright green leaves

About his home to see,

And feel the swaying summer winds

Play in the full-robed tree.

THE VOICE OF THE GALE.

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The cottage door is open wide,

And cheerful sounds are heard;

The young girl sings at the merry wheel
A song like the wildwood bird;
The creeping child by the old worn sill
Peers out with winking eye,

And his ringlets parts with his chubby hand,
As the drops come spattering by.

With bounding heart beneath the sky
The truant boy is out,

And hoop and ball are darting by,

With many a merry shout;
Ay, shout away, ye joyous throng!
For yours is the April day;
I love to see your spirits dance,

In your pure and healthful play!

THE VOICE OF THE GALE.

BY THOMAS J. CHARLTON.

'Tis the voice of the gale: I have heard it, at night,
Sweep the depths of the sea with its terrible might;
And the sound of its wailing seemed fraught with the cry
Of thousands who sank mid the waters to die.

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THE VOICE OF THE GALE.

"Tis the voice of the gale: I have heard its deep moan Through the desolate halls of some fabric o'erthrown; And the accents of those who once gladdened its hearth Seemed again to return to the place of their birth.

'Tis the voice of the gale: mid the desolate plain,
In the forest's dark gloom, I have heard it complain,
Like the tones of some spirit that hovered in air,
And mourned for the children of sorrow and care.

'Tis the voice of the gale, which, to fancy's fond ear,
Seems filled with the accents of those ever dear,-
My friends, my companions, my kindred,-all those
Who have sunk to the sleep of a lasting repose.

Yes; oft, mid its moanings, we dream they are nigh,
And fancy we hear their soft voices reply:
'Tis a vision of bliss, till, by reason o'erthrown,
We hear the rude breath of the tempest alone.

WILD is your airy sweep,

Billows that foam from yonder mountain side

Dashing with whitened crests and thundering tide To seek the distant deep!

Now to the verge ye climb,

Now rush to plunge with emulous haste below; Sounding your stormy chorus as ye go

A never-ending chime!