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Say not 'tis an unlovely time!

Turn to the wide, white waste thy view;
Turn to the silent hills that rise,

In their cold beauty to the skies;
And to those skies intensely blue.

Walk now among the forest trees,—

Saidst thou that they were stripped and bare?
Each heavy bough is bending down
With snowy leaves and flowers-the crown
Which Winter regally doth wear.

'Tis well-thy summer garden ne'er
Was lovelier, with its birds and flowers,
Than is this silent place of snow,
With feathery branches drooping low,
Wreathing around thee shadowy bowers!"

While on the subject of the natural beauties of this season, we must introduce our readers to some admirable verses, which have been furnished to us by our friend Mr. Stoddart, the author of that fine poem the "Death-Wake,”—and in which its peculiar aspects are described with a very graphic pen.

A WINTER LANDSCAPE.

"The dew-lark sitteth on the ice, beside the reedless rill;
The leaf of the hawthorn flutters on the solitary hill;
The wild lake weareth on its heart a cold and changed look,
And meets, at the lip of its moon-lit marge, the spiritual brook.

Idly basks the silver swan, near to the isle of trees,

And to its proud breast come and kiss the billow and the breeze;
They wash the eider, as they play about the bird of grace,

And boom, in the same slow mood, away, to the moveless mountain-base.

The chieftain-deer, amid the pines, his antlered forehead shows,

And scarcely are the mosses bent where that stately one arose ;

His step is as the pressure of a light, beloved hand,

And he looketh like a poet's dream, in some enchanted land!

A voice of Winter, on the last wild gust of Autumn borne,

Is hurried from the hills afar, like the windings of a horn:

And solemnly and heavily the silver birches groan,

And the old ash waves his wizard hand, to the dim, mysterious tone.

And noiselessly, across the heaven, a grey and vapory shred
Is wandering, fed by phantom clouds that, one by one, are led
Out of the wide north, where they grow within the aged sea,
And in their coils the yellow moon is laboring lazily!

She throws them from her mystic urn, as they were beckoned back
By some enchantress, working out her spells upon their track;
Or gathers up their fleecy folds, and shapes them as they go,
To hang around her beautiful form a tracery of snow.

Lo! Winter cometh -and his hoar is heavy on the hill,
And curiously the frostwork forms below the rimy rill;
The birth of morn is a gift of pearl to the heath and willow-tree,
And the green rush hangs o'er its water-bed, shining and silvery.

From the calm of the lake, a vapor steals its restless wreath away,
And leaves not a crisp on the quiet tarn, but the wake of the swan at play;
The deer holds up the glistening heath, where his hoof is lightly heard,
And the dew-lark circleth to his song,-sun-lost and lonely bird!"

But the season hath other striking aspects of its own. Pleasant, says Southey,

"To the sobered soul,

The silence of the wintry scene,
When nature shrouds her in her trance,
In deep tranquillity.

Not undelightful now to roam

The wild-heath sparkling on the sight;

Not undelightful now to pace

The forest's ample rounds,

And see the spangled branches shine,
And snatch the moss of many a hue,
That varies the old tree's brown bark,
Or o'er the grey-stone spreads."

Mr. Southey might have mentioned, too, as belonging to the "of same class of effects with those produced by the mosses many a hue," that "vary the old tree's brown bark,"—those members of the forest which retain their dead and many-tinted leaves till the ensuing spring, hanging occasional wreaths of strange and fantastic beauty in the white tresses of winter: together with the rich contrast presented by the red twigs of the

dog-wood, amid the dark colors of the surrounding boughs. The starry heavens, too, at this period of the year, present an occasional aspect of extraordinary brilliancy; and the long winter nights are illustrated by a pomp of illumination, presenting magnificent contrasts to the cold and cheerless earth, and offering unutterable revelations at once to the physical and mental eye.

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Amongst the traces of a former beauty not utterly extinguished, and the suggestions of a summer feeling not wholly passed away, we have those both of sight and scent and sound. The lark, independent of the leafy spring," as Wordsworth long ceased to pour his anthem through the sky. In propitious seasons, such as we have enjoyed for some years past, he is almost a Christmas-carol singer. The China-roses are with us still; and, under proper management, will stay with us till the snowdrops come. So will the anemones and the wall-flowers; and the aconite may be won to come, long "before the swallow dares, and take the winds of January with beauty." The cold air may be kept fragrant with the breath of the scented coltsfoot, and the lingering perfume of the mignonette. Then we have rosemary, too, "mocking the winter of the year with perfume,'

"Rosemary and rue, which keep

Seeming and savor all the winter long."

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"It looks," says Leigh Hunt, pleasantly, "as if we need have no winter, if we choose, as far as flowers are concerned." "There is a story," he adds, "in Boccacio, of a magician who conjured up a garden in winter time. His magic consisted in his having a knowledge beyond his time; and magic pleasures, so to speak, await on all who choose to exercise knowledge after his fashion."

But what we would allude to more particularly here, are the evergreens which, with their rich and clustering berries, adorn the winter season-offering a provision for a few birds that still remain, and hanging a faint memory of summer about the hedges and the groves. The misletoe with its white berries-the holly (Virgil's acanthus) with its scarlet berries and pointed leaves— the ivy whose berries are green—the pyracanthus, with its berries of deep orange-the arbutus, exhibiting its flowers and fruit

upon adjacent boughs,-the glossy laurel and the pink-eyed laurestine (not to speak of the red berries of the May-bush, the purple sloes of the black thorn, or others which show their clusters upon leafless boughs-nor of the ever-green trees, the pine, the fir, the cedar or the cypress),—are all so many pleasant remembrances of the past, —and so many types to man of that which is imperishable in his own nature. And it is, probably, both because they are such remembrancers of what the heart so much loves, and such types of what it so much desires, that they are gathered about our doors, and within our homes, at this period of natural decay and religious regeneration; -and mingle their picturesque forms and hopeful morals with all the mysteries and ceremonies of the season.

SIGNS OF THE SEASON.

WE have said that the coming festivities of the season “fling their shadows" long before :-the avant-couriers of the old man are to be seen advancing in all directions. At home and abroad, —in town and in country-in the remote farm-stead and on the king's highway-we are met by the symptoms of his approach, and the arrangements making for his reception.

We will not dwell here on the domestic operations, which are so familiar to all-the ample provision for good cheer, which has long been making in every man's home, who can, at any time, afford to make good cheer at all. We need not remind our townreaders of the increased activity visible in all the interior departments of each establishment, and the apparent extent and complication of its foreign relations ;—the councils held with the housekeeper and cook-the despatches to the butcher, baker, poulterer, and confectioner, which are their consequence,—and the efficient state of preparation which is arising out of all these energetic movements. To our country-readers we need not dwell upon the slaughter of fowls in the poultry-yard, and game in the field; or the wholesale doings within doors for the manufacture of pastry of all conceivable kinds, and in all its conceivable forms. And to neither the one nor the other is it necessary that we should speak of the packages, in every shape and size, which both are getting ready, for the interchange, between friends, of the commodities of their respective positions. Here, however, the town. has clearly the advantage in point of gain, and the country in point of character;-the former having little besides barrels of oysters and baskets of Billingsgate fish, to furnish to the country larders, in return for the entire range of the products of the dairy, farm-yard, and game-field.

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