And yet with Him who counts the sands, Inscribed against my name, Of all this mortal part hath wrought; H. Gould. THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. Now the growing year is over, Now the birds of Autumn shiver, Where the withered beech-leaves quiver, O'er the dark and lazy river, In the rocky dell. Now the mist is on the mountains, Reddening in the rising sun : Now the flowers around the fountains Perish one by one : Not a spire of grass is growing, But the leaves that late were glowing, Now its blighted green are strowing With a mantle dun. Now the torrent brook is stealing That the sound of cataracts falling As its hoarse and heavy brawling Darkly blue the mist is hovering Slow the blood-stained moon is riding Through the still and hazy air, Like a sheeted spectre gliding In the torch's glare: Few the hours her light is given- Percival. THE FLIGHT OF TIME. Faintly flow, thou falling river, Keep thy calm unruffled way : Roses bloom, and then they wither: Cheeks are bright, then fade and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither Then, like visions, hurry by: Quick as clouds at evening driven O'er the many-coloured west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest. Percival. THE RIVER. O, tell me, pretty river! "My birthplace was the mountain, My nurse, the April showers; My cradle was a fountain, O'er curtained by wild flowers. "One morn I ran away, "And then, 'mid meadowy banks, "But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave, I hear the ocean's roar, And there must be my grave!" Goodrich. THE FAMILY MEETING. We are all here! All who hold each other dear. Each chair is filled-we're all at home: Our old familiar hearth we're found: We're not all here! Some are away—the dead ones dear, We're not all here. |