AFTER A TEMPEST And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe Of small loose stones. Thenceforward all who passed, In silence on the pile. It stands there yet. 33 AFTER A TEMPEST. HE day had been a day of wind and storm; THE The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, Was shaken by the flight of startled bird; For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard And gossipped, as he hastened ocean-ward; And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry That seemed a living blossom of the air. The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them; in the way Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair; The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. It was a scene of peace—and, like a spell, Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, And precipice upspringing like a wall, And glassy river and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley, out of sight, Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light. I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, When o'er earth's continents, and isles between, The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, And married nations dwell in harmony; When millions, crouching in the dust to one, No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers AUTUMN WOODS. The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers AUTUMN WOODS. ERE, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, The mountains that infold, In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, 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, 35 Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-colored 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, Ah! 'twere a lot too blest For ever in thy colored shades to stray; To rove and dream for aye; 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. NOVEMBER. 37 YE NOVEMBER. ET one smile more, departing, distant sun! And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. THE sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. |