CXL. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. The melancholy days are come, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, That lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, A beauteous sisterhood? Alas, they all are in their graves; With the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, The wind-flower and the violet, They perished long ago, And the briar-rose and the orchis died, Amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, And the brightness of their smile was gone, And now, when comes the calm, mild day, To call the squirrel and the bee When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, And twinkle in the smoky light The waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers Whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood And by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in In the cold, moist earth we laid her, W. C. Bryant. CXLI. AUTUMN. A Dirge. The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone Come, months, come away; Put on black, white and grey, Let your light sisters play Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. Shelley. CXLII. Leaves have their time to fall And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, The banquet hath its hour, prayer Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, We know when moons shall wane, When Summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Mrs. Hemans. CXLIII. Bright be thy dreams-may all thy weeping May those by death and seas removed, In dreams come smiling to thee! There may the child, whose love lay deepest, Still as she was-no charm forgot No lustre lost that life had given; Or, if changed, but changed to what Thou❜lt find her yet in Heaven! T. Moore. |