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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:

drear."

W. J. HENDERSON.

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“In eddying course when leaves began to fly,
As mid wild scenes I chanced the muse to woo."

ECHO AND SILENCE.
IN eddying course when leaves began to fly, Through glens untrod, and woods that frown-

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;

A

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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 thonsand 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.

grieve.

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; Sets all the woodbine's waving sprays on fire, And o'er her green and sunny slopes And leaves them flaming from the cedar's The plaintive winds her dirges falter.

spire, And clust'ring berries hangs he here and there, It is the Indian summer-time ! Some like the rubies, some as round and fair

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

How 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,

(From "* Miami Woods.") And Winter hides it underneath the snow.

(HAT a change hath passed upon the face MARGARET EYTINGE.

spreads. AUTUMNAL SONNET.

Once robed in deepest green! All through the TOW 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

even

NOW

Have touched with magic breath the chang- A golden glory ; yonder, where the oak ing leaves;

Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash And now, as wanders the dilating eye

Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad Across the varied landscape, circling far, The dog wood spreads beneath, a rolling flood What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp Of deepest crimson; and afar, where looms Of colors, bursts upon the ravished sight! The gnarled gum, a cloud of bloodiest red ! Here, where the maple rears its yellow crest,

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

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And the year,
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of

leaves dead,
Is lying ;

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NOVEMBER.
THE wild November comes at last

A barren realm of withered fields,
Beneath a veil of rain;

Bleak woods of fallen leaves,
The night-wind blows its folds aside.

The palest morns that ever dawned,
Her face is full of pain.

The dreariest of eves.

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WINTER.

(From "The Task," Book IV.) WINTER, ruler of the inverted year, A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes Shortening his journey between morn and noon, filled,

And hurrying bim, impatient of his stay, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy Down to the rosy west; but kindly still cheeks

Compensating his loss with added hours Fringed with a beard made white with other of social converse and instructive ease, snows

And gathering, at short notice, in one group Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in The family dispersed, and fixing thought, clouds,

Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. A leafless branch thy scepter, and thy throne I crown thee king of intimate delights, A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,

Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, But urged by storms along its slippery way, And all the comforts that the lowly roof I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the Of long uninterrupted evening know. sun

WILLIAM COWPER.

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