ODE TO WINTER. When first the fiery-mantled sun First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; Rushed into her sire's embrace : On India's citron-covered isles: The queen of vintage bowed before his throne; But howling Winter fled afar, Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear 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, Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, Pour on yonder tented shores, 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,- - THE SOLDIER'S DREAM, Our bugles sang truce-for the night cloud had lowered, *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 And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn: 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 mountains that infold In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round, I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, And far in heaven, the while, The sun that sends that gale to wander here, Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet; Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, And glimmerings of the sun. But, 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Her blush of maiden shame. Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; Ah! 'twere a lot too blest For ever in thy coloured shades to stray; To rove and dream for aye; And leave the vain low strife [power, That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and 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 |