dewy teardrops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds.
In a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide
open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of
man, began his state.

I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient [v]Magians, who, in
the morning of the world, went up to the hilltops of Central Asia, and,
ignorant of the true God, adored the most glorious work of His hand. But
I am filled with amazement, when I am told that, in this enlightened age
and in the heart of the Christian world, there are persons who can
witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator,
and yet say in their hearts, "There is no God."

EDWARD EVERETT.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

What experience did Everett describe? What impresses the mood of
the early morning? In what latitude did Everett live? What stars
and constellations did he mention? Trace the steps by which he
pictured the sunrise. Why did he not wonder at the belief of the
"ancient Magians"? What thought does cause amazement?

SPRING

Spring, with that nameless [v]pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair--
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods, the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court, with green festoons,
The banks of dark [v]lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree,
The blood is all aglee;
And there's a look about the leafless bowers,
As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still, on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange [v]semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.

[Illustration: The Woods in Spring]

As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.

In gardens, you may note, amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and showers need must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.