All these were happy meetings unto me

The leaves, weeds, berries with their lively tints,
Pale flowers, and pleasant musings. But ere long
A dearer and more joyous form than all
Came hopping friskily about. "Twas he,
The wintry warbler-poor Robin Red-breast,
As blithe and brisk, and merry as his wont,
Singing and chirrupping, as by my side
In kind companionship he skipped along,

Or flew from tree to tree. And as he sung,
Methought his gay notes shaped themselves to sense
Language like ours; and thus my fancy framed,

From his sweet music, unmelodious words.

Farewell to Autumn! She's passing away

Silently, swiftly going—

She is shaking the last brown leaves from the spray, And they fall on the earth, where the Sun's slant ray Finds only damp moss growing.

Autumn is parting; mute and fast

Her few faint flowers are dying;

The noon of the year is gone and past,
And every moaning and muttering blast
The Summer's dirge is crying.

But let us be merry-though Summer is gone,

And Autumn away is gliding;

And hoary Winter, now hurrying on,

With storms and snows, will be here anon, 'Mid winds all loudly chiding.

Still, ever be merry, as I am now,

Thorough the wintry weather;

For ye have the bright hearth's cheering glow,
While for me the ruddy hedge-berries grow,
So let us be gay together!

Oh! ever be merry!-what do ye gain

By murmuring, fretting, sighing ?

Why ever strive to discover pain?

Why court the things of which ye complain?
Why on life's dark side be prying?

Cease cease, and be merry;-Oh come to me, E'en a bird shall teach ye reason

Shall show ye how gaily and happily

Poor Robin can sing in a leafless tree,
And love e'en the dreariest season.

Then ever be merry- -a lesson take now,
That well ye may aye remember;

A contented heart and a cloudless brow

Can light life's shadowy path with a glow
Like sunshine in dim November.

AUTUMN SCENES AND FLOWERS.

To the mind accustomed to contemplate and enjoy Nature, every season is so full of beauty, that in describing or alluding to them successively, we unconsciously give to each a seeming preference.

"The flowering Spring, the Summer's ardent strength,
And sober Autumn, fading into age,"

each in its turn calls forth our loving praise. To Spring and Summer we have already paid all the brief tribute which the limits of these pages allow : - and brown Autumn must

now succeed her more brilliant, but not more beautiful sisters. too finely

Thomson's opening lines in this season, are

descriptive to be forgotten here:

Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased I tune. Whate'er the Wintery frost
Nitrous prepared; the various-blossomed Spring
Put in white promise forth; and Summer suns
Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,
Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme-

From Heav'n's high cope the fierce effulgence shook
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,

With golden light enliven'd, wide invests

The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise,

Sweet-beamed, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad and brown below,
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep they stand, for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain:
A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air

Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden Sun,
By fits effulgent, gilds th' illumined field,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily-chequer'd, heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.

Autumn in England is a joyous and a glorious season, the time when nature's wealth of field and tree is most lavishly displayed, and gathered with thankful merriment. How richly, glowingly beautiful are corn-fields now!-with their troops of reapers, gleaners, and country maidens heavily-laden waggons, sleek, sturdy horses, and gambolling

children.

Herrick's " Hock-cart, or Harvest-home," well describes such scenes, though he seems to allude to ceremonies not now in use at that festive time

Come, sons of Summer, by whose toile
We are the lords of wine and oile;
By whose tough labours and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.

Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And, to the pipe, sing Harvest-home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See here a maukin, there a sheet,
As spotlesse pure as it is sweete;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad all in linen white as lillies.
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart heare how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout,
Pressing before, some coming after
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some blesse the cart, some kisse the sheaves,
Some pranke them up with oaken leaves:
Some cross the fill horse, some with great
Devotion stroak the home-borne wheat.

The younger portion of the Harvest-throng find abundant employment in searching the hedges for the favourite and refreshing fruit of the Blackberry-and we see them standing in groups in lanes and fields, with their plump, rosy faces dyed, in no very becoming style, it is true, with the dark. purple juice; while many a woful rent in frock and pinafore tells of their exploits among the tangled and prickly briars. In the woods, too, both blackberry-gathering and nutting may now be enjoyed to perfection; and in autumn's Forest scenery the Poet and Painter find her greatest glory. Every tree, aye, almost every leaf has a different tint, and the distant woody landscape is touched with every hue of the painter's palette, laid on by the delicate and harmonious finger of Nature. Few spots can display this magnificent