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162

SUMMER WIND.

That still delays its coming.

Why so slow,

Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves

He comes i

He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about.
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

AUTUMN WOODS.

ERE, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold,

In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round. Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-
The sweetest of the year.

164

AUTUMN WOODS.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;

Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed

For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft southwest

To rove and dream for aye;

AUTUMN WOODS.

And leave the vain low strife

That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and power,

The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

165

A WINTER PIECE.

THE time has been that these wild solitudes,
Yet beautiful as wild-were trod by me
Oftener than now; and when the ills of life

Had chafed my spirit-when the unsteady pulse
Beat with strange flutterings-I would wander forth
And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path

Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills,

The quiet dells retiring far between,
With gentle invitation to explore
Their windings, were a calm society

That talked with me and soothed me.

Then the chant

Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress
Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget
The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began
To gather simples by the fountain's brink,
And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood
In nature's loneliness, I was with one

With whom I early grew familiar, one

Who never had a frown for me, whose voice
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole

From cares I loved not, but of which the world
Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked
The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,

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