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Less sad the wild woods yellowing, their empty arms less sad, When all their leaves, as torn-off hair, they strew like mourners mad

On all the winds, and naked stand, the mountain's skeletons, High beating o'er the waterfalls that thunder back their

groans.

September skies, September woods! How like Life's soft decline,

When round a heart too old to hope its farewell beauties shine!

When every pangless minute steals a mournful preciousness, Till e'en Life's blessings turn to pain, so soon no more to

bless!

With health's mock spring in every limb, its glow, its easy breath,

More horror flings round thy black frost, thy springless Winter, Death!

Though like this winter in disguise, Death steals on with a smile,

It comes, it comes, eclipsing all this bloomy world the

while.

As one borne down a pleasant stream toward a terrific fall,
In its blue depths and cowslip banks no pleasantness at all
Finds, for the failing of his heart in horror of th' abyss-
So sad, though smooth, Life's latter stream; for lo! the
precipice!

Though, like your sapless leaves still green, still hangs th' unalter'd hair,

Time, that delays its snow, will soon the very skull lay

bare.

Oh, Autumn woods, and fields, and flowers! to you Spring comes again

To clothe, to paint, to beautify! To man the mourner― when?

The blossom shall remount its bough, each little flower its

bank

Each, blushing to the Spring-God's smile, resume its being's

rank;

Th' immortal violet burst the sod: while man, proud man,

whose foot

Treads its pale beauty down shall lie in darkness 'neath its

root!

Though Faith points to a prouder home for Man's ejected soul,

His mortal part what creed forbids a backward eye to roll? A valley shepherd, call'd to change his cottage for a throne, Might sigh to leave his fields, his fold, and all his little own.

So I, while men more worthy, more ambitious of Heaven's

crown,

O'erlook Death's gulf, I shivering stand, and still look back or down:

Not golden groves of angels tempt my wishes from these vales,

Enough of Paradise for me, "mine own romantic" Wales!

THE SPIRIT LAND.

By Mrs. HEMANS.

The Indians imagine that the way is long, and the only communication between Heaven and Earth by means of the wild forest-bird, seldom seen. How beautifully Mrs. HEMANS embodies the idea in the following poem!

THOU art come from the spirit-land, thou bird!

Thou art come from the spirit-land!

Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band.

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore,

And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there-and they weep no more.

And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst
From the fountain of Youth ere now,

For there must the stream in its freshness burst
Which none may find below.

And we know that they will not be lured to earth,
From the land of deathless flowers,

By the feast, or the dance, or song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours;

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,

And heard the tales of our father's days
Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have loved forget?
We call-and they answer not again-
Do they love-do they love us yet?

Doth the warrior think of his brother there,
And the father of his child?

And the chief, of those who were wont to share
His wanderings through the wild?

We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;

We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still ?

NOON.

By FREDERICK TENNYSON, brother of the Laureat, who has lately published a volume of very beautiful poems, from which this is taken.

THE winds are hush'd, the clouds have ceased to sail,
And lie like islands in the Ocean-day,

The flowers hang down their heads, and far away
A faint bell tinkles in a sun-drown'd vale;

No voice but the cicala's whirring note-No motion but the grasshoppers that leap; The reaper pours into his burning throat The last drops of his flask, and falls asleep.

The rippling flood of a clear mountain stream

Fleets by, and makes sweet babble with the stones;
The sleepy music with its murmuring tones

Lays me at noontide in Arcadian dream;

Hard by soft night of summer bowers is seen, With trellised vintage curtaining a cove

Whose diamond mirror paints the amber-green,
The glooming bunches, and the boughs above.
Finches, and moths, and gold-dropt dragon-flies
Dip in their wings, and a young village-daughter
Is bending with her pitcher o'er the water;
Her round arm imaged, and her laughing eyes,
And the fair brow amid the flowing hair,
Look like the nymph's, for Hylas coming up,
Pictured among the leaves and fruitage there;
Or the boy's self a-drowning with his cup.

Up through the vines, her urn upon her head,
Her feet unsandal'd, and her dark locks free,
She takes her way, a lovely thing to see;
And like a skylark starting from its bed,

A glancing meteor, or a tongue of flame,
Or virgin waters gushing from their springs,
Her hope flies up-her heart is pure of blame-
On wings of sound: she sings! oh how she sings!

HOME AND FRIENDS.

By CHARLES SWAIN.

Он, there's a power to make each hour
As sweet as Heaven design'd it ;
Nor need we roam to bring it home,
Though few there be that find it!'
We seek too high for things close by,
And lose what Nature found us;
For life hath here no charm so dear
As home and friends around us!

We oft destroy the present joy

For future hopes-and praise them;
Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet,
If we'd but stoop to raise them!

For things afar still sweeter are,

When Youth's bright spell bath bound us; But soon we're taught that earth hath nought Like home and friends around us!

The friends that speed in time of need,
When Hope's last reed is shaken,
To show us still, that, come what will,
We are not quite forsaken !

Though all were night, if but the light
From friendship's altar crown'd us,
'Twould prove the bliss of earth was this—
Our home and friends around us!

TO A WITHERED TREE IN JUNE.

By Sir E. BULWER LYTTON.

DESOLATE tree! why are thy branches bare ? What hast thou done

To win strange winter from the summer air, Frost from the sun?

Thou wert not churlish in thy palmier year
Unto the herd;

Tenderly gavest thou shelter to the deer,
Home to the bird.

And, ever once the earliest of the grove,
Thy smiles were gay,

Opening thy blossoms with the haste of love
To the young May.

Then did the bees, and all the insect-wings
Around thee gleam ;-

Feaster and darling of the gilded things
That dwell i' the beam.

Thy liberal course, poor prodigal, is sped;
How lonely now!-

How bird and bee, light parasites, have fled
The leafless bough!

Tell me, sad tree, why are thy branches bare? What hast thou done

To win strange winter from the summer air, Frost from the sun?

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