(For A Fresco.)

Firstly thou, churl son of Janus, Rough for cold, in drugget clad, Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;-- Firstly thou, churl son of Janus. Caverned now is old Sylvanus; Numb and chill are maid and lad.

After thee thy dripping brother, Dank his weeds around him cling; Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,-- After thee thy dripping brother. Hearth-set couples hush each other, Listening for the cry of Spring.

Hark! for March thereto doth follow, Blithe,--a herald tabarded; O'er him flies the shifting swallow,-- Hark! for March thereto doth follow. Swift his horn, by holt and hollow, Wakes the flowers in winter dead.

Thou then, April, Iris' daughter, Born between the storm and sun; Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,-- Thou then, April, Iris' daughter. Now are light, and rustling water; Now are mirth, and nests begun.

May the jocund cometh after, Month of all the Loves (and mine); Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,-- May the jocund cometh after. Beaks are gay on roof and rafter; Luckless lovers peak and pine.

June the next, with roses scented, Languid from a slumber-spell; June in shade of leafage tented;-- June the next, with roses scented. Now her Itys, still lamented, Sings the mournful Philomel.

Hot July thereafter rages, Dog-star smitten, wild with heat; Fierce as pard the hunter cages,-- Hot July thereafter rages. Traffic now no more engages; Tongues are still in stall and street.

August next, with cider mellow, Laughs from out the poppied corn; Hook at back, a lusty fellow,-- August next, with cider mellow. Now in wains the sheafage yellow 'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.

Laden deep with fruity cluster, Then September, ripe and hale; Bees about his basket fluster,-- Laden deep with fruity cluster. Skies have now a softer lustre; Barns resound to flap of flail.

Thou then, too, of woodlands lover, Dusk October, berry-stained; Wailed about of parting plover,-- Thou then, too, of woodlands lover. Fading now are copse and cover; Forests now are sere and waned.

Next November, limping, battered, Blinded in a whirl of leaf; Worn of want and travel-tattered,-- Next November, limping, battered. Now the goodly ships are shattered, Far at sea, on rock and reef.

Last of all the shrunk December Cowled for age, in ashen gray; Fading like a fading ember,-- Last of all the shrunk December. Him regarding, men remember Life and joy must pass away.

TWO SERMONS.

Between the rail of woven brass, That hides the "Strangers' Pew," I hear the gray-haired vicar pass From Section One to Two.

And somewhere on my left I see-- Whene'er I chance to look-- A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily, Who notes them--in a book.

Ah, worthy GOODMAN,--sound divine! Shall I your wrath incur, If I admit these thoughts of mine Will sometimes stray--to her?

I know your theme, and I revere; I hear your precepts tried; Must I confess I also hear A sermon at my side?

Or how explain this need I feel,-- This impulse prompting me Within my secret self to kneel To Faith,--to Purity!