HENRY PICKERING.

THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN

HARK to the sounding gale! how through the soul It vibrates, and in thunder seems to roll

Along the mountains! Loud the forest moans, And, naked to the blast, the o'ermastering spirit

owns.

Rustling, the leaves are rudely hurried by,
Or in dark eddies whirl'd; while from on high
The ruffian Winds, as if in giant mirth,

Unseat the mountain pine, and headlong dash to earth!

With crest of foam, the uplifted flood no more
Flows placidly along the sylvan shore;

But, vex'd to madness, heaves its turbid wave, Threatening to leap the banks it whilom loved lave:

And in the angry heavens, where, wheeling low,
The sun exhibits yet a fitful glow,

The clouds, obedient to the stormy power,
Or shatter'd fly along, or still more darkly lower.

Amazement seizes all! within the vale

Shrinking, the mute herd snuff the shivering gale; The while, with tossing head and streaming mane, The horse affrighted bounds, or wildly skims the plain.

Whither, with charms to Fancy yet so dear,
Whither has fled the lovely infant year?

Where, too, the groves in greener pomp array'd? The deep and solemn gloom of the inspiring shade?

The verdant heaven that once the woods o'erAnd underneath a pensive twilight shed, [spread,

Is shrivell'd all: dead the vine-mantled bowers, And wither'd in their bloom the beautiful young

flowers!

Mute, too, the voice of Joy! no tuneful bird
Amid the leafless forest now is heard;

Nor more may ploughboy's laugh the bosom cheer, Nor in the velvet glade Love's whisper charm the

ear.

But lo, the ruthless storm its force hath spent ; And see! where sinking 'neath yon cloudy tent, The sun withdraws his last cold, feeble ray, Abandoning to Night his short and dubious sway.

A heavier gloom pervades the chilly air!
Now in their northern caves the Winds prepare
The nitrous frost to sheet with dazzling white,
The long-deserted fields at the return of light:

Or with keen icy breath they may glass o'er
The restless wave, and on the lucid floor
Let fall the feathery shower, and far and wide
Involve in snowy robe the land and fetter'd tide!

Thus shut the varied scene! and thus, in turn,
Oh Autumn! thou within thine ample urn

Sweep'st all earth's glories. Ah, for one brief hour, Spare the soft virgin's bloom and tender human flower!

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

THE PATRIARCHAL AGE.

OH! for those early days, when patriarchs dwelt
In pastoral tents, that rose beneath the palm,
When life was pure, and every bosom felt
Unwarp'd affection's sweetest, holiest balm,

And like the silent scene around them, calm, Years stole along in one unruffled flow;

Their hearts aye warbled with devotion's psalm, And as they saw their buds around them blow, Their keenly glistening eye revealed the grateful glow.

They sat at evening, when their gather'd flocks
Bleated and sported by the palm-crowned well,
The sun was glittering on the pointed rocks,
And long and wide the deepening shadows fell;
They sang their hymn, and in a choral swell
They raised their simple voices to the Power
Who smiled along the fair sky; they would dwell
Fondly and deeply on his praise; that hour

Was to them, as to flowers that droop and fade, the shower.

He warm'd them in the sunbeams, and they gazed
In wonder on that kindling fount of light;

And as, hung on the glowing west, it blazed
In brighter glories, with a full delight

They pour'd their pealing anthem, and when night Lifted her silver forehead, and the moon

Roll'd through the blue serenity, in bright But softer radiance, they bless'd the boon

That gave those hours the charm without the fire of

noon.

Spring of the living world, the dawn of nature,
When man walk'd forth the lord of all below,
Erect and godlike in his giant stature,

Before the tainted gales of vice 'gan blow:
His conscience spotless as the new-fallen snow,
Pure as the crystal spouting from the spring,
He aim'd no murderous dagger, drew no bow,
But at the soaring of the eagle's wing,

The gaunt wolf's stealthy step, the lion's ravening spring.

With brutes alone he arm'd himself for war;
Free to the winds his long locks dancing flew,
And at his prowling enemy afar,

He shot his death-shaft from the nervy yew;
In morning's mist his shrill-voiced bugle blew,
And with the rising sun on tall rocks strode,

And, bounding through the gemm'd and sparkling, dew,

The rose of health, that in his full cheek glow'd, Told of the pure fresh stream that there enkindling flow'd.

This was the age when mind was all on fire,
The days of inspiration when the soul,
Warm'd, heighten'd, lifted, burning with desire
For all the great and lovely, to the goal

Of man's essential glory rush'd; then stole
The sage his spark from heaven, the prophet spake
His deep-toned words of thunder, as when roll
The peals amid the clouds: words that would break
The spirit's leaden sleep, and all its terrors wake.

THE SUN.

CENTRE of light and energy! thy way

Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day, Far in the blue, untended and alone:

Ere the first-waken'd airs of earth had blown, On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light; Then thou didst send thy glance, which still hath flown

Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, And yet thy full orb burns with flash as keen and

bright.

We call thee Lord of Day, and thou dost give

To Earth the fire that animates her crust,
And' wakens all the forms that move and live,
From the fine viewless mould which lurks in dust,
To him who looks to Heaven, and on his bust
Bears stamp'd the seal of God, who gathers there
Lines of deep thought, high feeling, daring trust
In his own centred powers, who aims to share
In all his soul can frame of wide, and great, and fair.

Thy path is high in Heaven; we cannot gaze
On the intense of light that girds thy car;
There is a crown of glory in thy rays,
Which bears thy pure divinity afar,
To mingle with the equal light of star,
For thou, so vast to us, art in the whole
One of the sparks of night that fire the air,
And as around thy centre planets roll,

So thou too hast thy path around the central soul.

I am no fond idolater to thee,

One of the countless multitude, who burn, As lamps, around the one Eternity,

In whose contending forces systems turn
Their circles round that seat of life, the urn
Where all must sleep, if matter ever dies:
Sight fails me here, but fancy can discern
With the wide glance of her all-seeing eyes,
Where, in the heart of worlds, the ruling Spirit lies.
And thou, too, hast thy world, and unto thee
We are as nothing; thou goest forth alone,

And movest through the wide aërial sea,
Glad as a conqueror resting on his throne
From a new victory, where he late had shown
Wider his power to nations; so thy light

Comes with new pomp, as if thy strength had grown,

With each revolving day, or thou at night

Had lit again thy fires, and thus renew'd thy might.