Less sad the wild woods yellowing, their empty arms less sad, When all their leaves, as torn-off hair, they strew like mourners mad On all the winds, and naked stand, the mountain's skeletons, High beating o'er the waterfalls that thunder back their groans. September skies, September woods! How like Life's soft decline, When round a heart too old to hope its farewell beauties shine! When every pangless minute steals a mournful preciousness, Till e'en Life's blessings turn to pain, so soon no more to bless! With health's mock spring in every limb, its glow, its easy breath, More horror flings round thy black frost, thy springless Winter, Death! Though like this winter in disguise, Death steals on with a smile, It comes, it comes, eclipsing all this bloomy world the while. As one borne down a pleasant stream toward a terrific fall, Though, like your sapless leaves still green, still hangs th' unalter'd hair, Time, that delays its snow, will soon the very skull lay bare. Oh, Autumn woods, and fields, and flowers! to you Spring comes again To clothe, to paint, to beautify! To man the mourner― when? The blossom shall remount its bough, each little flower its bank Each, blushing to the Spring-God's smile, resume its being's rank; Th' immortal violet burst the sod: while man, proud man, whose foot Treads its pale beauty down shall lie in darkness 'neath its root! Though Faith points to a prouder home for Man's ejected soul, His mortal part what creed forbids a backward eye to roll? A valley shepherd, call'd to change his cottage for a throne, Might sigh to leave his fields, his fold, and all his little own. So I, while men more worthy, more ambitious of Heaven's crown, O'erlook Death's gulf, I shivering stand, and still look back or down: Not golden groves of angels tempt my wishes from these vales, Enough of Paradise for me, "mine own romantic" Wales! THE SPIRIT LAND. By Mrs. HEMANS. The Indians imagine that the way is long, and the only communication between Heaven and Earth by means of the wild forest-bird, seldom seen. How beautifully Mrs. HEMANS embodies the idea in the following poem! THOU art come from the spirit-land, thou bird! Thou art come from the spirit-land! Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard, We know that the bowers are green and fair And we know that the friends we have lost are there, And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst For there must the stream in its freshness burst And we know that they will not be lured to earth, By the feast, or the dance, or song of mirth, Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, And heard the tales of our father's days But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain! Doth the warrior think of his brother there, And the chief, of those who were wont to share We call them far through the silent night, We know, thou bird! that their land is bright, NOON. By FREDERICK TENNYSON, brother of the Laureat, who has lately published a volume of very beautiful poems, from which this is taken. THE winds are hush'd, the clouds have ceased to sail, The flowers hang down their heads, and far away No voice but the cicala's whirring note-No motion but the grasshoppers that leap; The reaper pours into his burning throat The last drops of his flask, and falls asleep. The rippling flood of a clear mountain stream Fleets by, and makes sweet babble with the stones; Lays me at noontide in Arcadian dream; Hard by soft night of summer bowers is seen, With trellised vintage curtaining a cove Whose diamond mirror paints the amber-green, Up through the vines, her urn upon her head, A glancing meteor, or a tongue of flame, HOME AND FRIENDS. By CHARLES SWAIN. Он, there's a power to make each hour We oft destroy the present joy For future hopes-and praise them; For things afar still sweeter are, When Youth's bright spell bath bound us; But soon we're taught that earth hath nought Like home and friends around us! The friends that speed in time of need, Though all were night, if but the light TO A WITHERED TREE IN JUNE. By Sir E. BULWER LYTTON. DESOLATE tree! why are thy branches bare ? What hast thou done To win strange winter from the summer air, Frost from the sun? Thou wert not churlish in thy palmier year Tenderly gavest thou shelter to the deer, And, ever once the earliest of the grove, Opening thy blossoms with the haste of love Then did the bees, and all the insect-wings Feaster and darling of the gilded things Thy liberal course, poor prodigal, is sped; How bird and bee, light parasites, have fled Tell me, sad tree, why are thy branches bare? What hast thou done To win strange winter from the summer air, Frost from the sun? |