« PreviousContinue »
Lastly came Winter clothed all in frize,
In his right hand a tipped staffe he held, Chattering his teeth for cold that did him With which his feeble steps he stayed chill,
still; Whilst on his boary beard his breath did For he was faint with cold, and weak with freese,
eld, And the dull drops, that from his purpled That scarce his loose limbes he able was to bill
weld. As from a limbeck did adown distil;
(From “ The Revolt of Islam," Canto IX.) THE blasts of 'Autumn drive the winged Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet; seeds
Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou Over the earth; next come the snows, and
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with And frost, and storms, which dreary Winter
gentle feet, leads
Disturbing not the leaves which are her windOut of his Scythian cave, a savage train.
ing sheet. Behold! Spring sweeps over the world
again, Shedding soft dews from her ethereal wings; Virtue, and Hope, and Love, like light and Flowers on the mountain, fruits over the
Surround the world; we are their chosen And music on the waves and woods she flings,
slaves. And love on all that lives, and calm on lifeless Has not the whirlwind of our spirit driven things.
Truth's deathless germs to thought's remot
est caves ? O Spring! of hope, and love, and youth, and Lo, Winter comes! the grief of many gladness,
graves, Wind-winged emblem ! brightest, best and The frost of death, the tempest of the fairest!
sword, Whence comest thou, when, with dark Win The flood of tyranny, whose sanguine waves ter's sadness,
Stagnate like ice at Faith, the enchanter's The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou
And bind all human hearts in its repose Sister of Joy! thou art the child who wear
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,
IN THE OCTOBER FIELDS. DHE bright-robed days sit now at feast, And Hope's clear bugle on the hills is blown and sup
By comely lips made moist with fruity stains. From golden service heaped with fruits divine;
Shall we be found less generous to our souls The waning year drinks from October's cup
Than are the seasons to the patient earth? The melancholy cheer of autumn's wine.
Shall we yet choose to drift in mental shoals
Where weak-winged fancies only find a A ruddier tide now fills the tingling veins
birth? And life takes on a sturdier-hearted tone, Care's hungering grasp the mounting soul dis- Shall we be found more niggard of our store dains,
Than are the flame-crowned princes of the And scorns to count the sorrows she hath wood, known.
While at our heart's inhospitable door What matters it if summer's birds have flown, A brother faints for some withholden good? And rustling leaves drift on the upland plains? Though Nature's wide arms bear her precious The richest gifts of Nature kept unshared grains
Become but poverty; goods unbestowed, To fragrant hidden garners of her own, Like fruits ungathered, shrivel into blight, Yet what her lavish hand hath spilled re Which mars the soul's new blossoming; the mains,
road For careful gleaning is to her unknown; Of excellence was by some god prepared From her full hand her ripened seeds are So that no souls might win the glorious thrown
height On springing fields late freshened from the Save those unweighted by that hindering load. the rains,
ROBERT BURNS Wilsox.
(From "Shadow Brook,"' in "Wonder Book.") °HE sun was now an hour or two beyond its noontide mark, and filled the great hollow
of the valley with its western radiance, so that it seemed to be brimming with mellow light, and to spill it over the surrounding hillsides, like golden wine out of a bowl. It
was such a day that you could not help saying of it, “ There never was such a day before!" although yesterday was just such a day, and tomorrow will be just such another. Ah, but there are very few of them in a twelvemonth's circle! It is a remarkable peculiarity of these October days that each of them seems to occupy a great deal of space, although the sun rises rather tardily at that season of the year, and goes to bed, as little children ought, at sober six o'clock, or even earlier. We cannot, therefore, call the days long ; but they appear, somehow or other, to make up for their shortness by their breadth; and when the cool night comes, we are conscious of having enjoyed a big armful of life, since morning.
A SONG IN OCTOBER. H, hear ye not a voice that comes a-sing- “Home, shepherds; home, sheep; Winter ing through the trees,
cometh near: Across the mead and down the dell, along the Wither, flowers; fall, leaves; days will soon dying breeze?
be drear." And hear ye not the burden of its melancholy And hear ye not another voice a-sighing o'er song,
the main, Upon the lingering winds of Autumn sadly Across the surf, along the beach, a monody of borne along?
Oh, tremble while ye listen to its melancholy “Part, lovers; part, maids ; Winter cometh
song, Upon the lingering winds of Autumn sadly Sleep, kisses; die, love; life will soon be borne along:
W. J. HENDERSON.
“In eddying course when leaves began to fly,
ECHO AND SILENCE.
And Autumn in her lap the stores to strew, ed on high, As mid wild scenes I chanced the muse to woo Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy;
And lo! she's gone-in robe of dark-green hue Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew: O’er empty fields or upland solitudes, For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the Or grim, wide wave; and now the power sky.
is felt In shade affrighted Silence melts away. Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Not so her sister. Hark! For onward still Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. With far-heard step she takes her listening Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, way,
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill; The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes, Ah! mark the merry maid, in mockful play, It may be somewhat thus we shall have leave With thousand mimic tones the laughing To walk with memory, when distant lies forest fill!
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. AND NOW COMES AUTUMN. ND now comes Autumn-artist bold and
INDIAN SUMMER. free,
IT is the Indian summer-time, Exceeding rich in brightest tints that be
The days of mist, and haze, and glory, And with a skill that tells of power divine
And on the leaves in hues sublime, Paints a vast landscape wonderfully fine.
The Autumn paints poor Summer's story. Over the chestnut cloth of gold he throws, Turns the ash purple, cheers with scarlet “ She died in beauty," sing the hours, glows
* And left on earth a glorious shadow;" The lonely sumac, that erewhile was seen “She died in beauty, like her flowers," Clad in dull foliage of a somber green,
Is painted on each wood and meadow. Where daises bloomed gives golden-rod in stead,
She perished, like bright human hopes, Stains every oak leaf with the darkest red,
That blaze awhile upon life's altar;
It is the Indian summer-time!
The crimson leaves like coals are gleaming, As pearls, some blue as sapphires, some as
The brightest tints of every clime brown
Are o'er our western forest streaming. As the fast-fading leaves that rustle down
IIow bright the hours! Yet o'er their close Beneath the trees that give them life, to die,
The moments sigh in mournful duty, Or else away with roving winds to fly.
And redder light around them glows, And when at last all's finished-hill and dale,
Like hectic on the cheek of beauty! Wildwood and field-he drops a misty vail
MRS. NICHOLLS. Over the picture, and a few glad days The world looks on with wonder and with praise,
INDIAN SUMMER. Till faint and fainter all the colors grow,
CHAT a change hath passed upon the face
Of Nature, where the waving forest
spreads, AUTUMNAL SONNET.
Once robed in deepest green! All through the OW Autumn's fire burns slowly along the night woods,
The subtle frost hath plied its mystic art; And day by day the dead leaves fall and And in the day, the golden sun hath wrought melt.
True wonders; and the winds of morn and And night by night the monitory blast