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ODE TO WINTER.

When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four, the Seasons, flew.

First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel grace ;
Rosy Summer next advancing,

Rushed into her sire's embrace :
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-covered isles:
More remote and buxom-brown,

The queen of vintage bowed before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side.
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the halls where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale.

Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy, with her bloodshot
Implores thy dreadful deity.
Archangel! power of desolation!

Fast descending as thou art,

Say, hath mortal invocation

eye,

Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year;

Nor chill the wand'rer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ;—
To shuddering want's unmantled bed,
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
And gently on the orphan head

Of innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
The sailor on his airy shrouds :

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan;

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! e'en your unhallowed breath

May spare the victim, fallen low;

But man will ask no truce to death,-
No bounds to human wo*.

-

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM,

Our bugles sang truce-for the night cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

*This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn:
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

AMERICAN POETRY.

The three articles next in course, are from the pen of Mr. Bryant. Of living poets of our native country, it is unnecessary to give information-the public regards them with curiosity which is generally gratified, and when they deserve it, they are objects of favour which is freely expressed. The individual whose name is attached to Autunn Woods, to the Song of the Stars, and to Rizpah, enjoys a reputation rever attached to mediocrity, and it becomes his countrymen and his contemporaries to furnish a pledge of the sure honours which late posterity will pay to his genius by the manner in which they cherish and requite that genius.

AUTUMN WOODS.

Ere, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold

In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright;
Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,
Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,

And glimmerings of the sun.

But, 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon

Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! 'twere a lot too blest

For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amidst the kisses of the soft southwest

To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife

[power,

That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and
The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

The variable climate of the eastern states, affords grounds of complaint to sensitive people, but the beautiful Autumn of that region is congenial to every constitution and taste. The aspect of nature at that season in New-England, inspires the most tranquil and happy

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