THE NEW AND THE OLD.

EW are the leaves on the oaken spray,

NEW

New the blades of the silky grass; Flowers, that were buds but yesterday, Peep from the ground where'er I pass.

These gay idlers, the butterflies,

Broke, to-day, from their winter shroud; These soft airs, that winnow the skies,

Blow, just born, from the soft, white cloud.

Gushing fresh in the little streams,

What a prattle the waters make!

Even the sun, with his tender beams,
Seems as young as the flowers they wake.

Children are wading, with cheerful cries,
In the shoals of the sparkling brook ;
Laughing maidens, with soft, young eyes,
Walk or sit in the shady nook.

What am I doing, thus alone,
In the glory of nature here,
Silver-haired, like a snow-flake thrown
On the greens of the springing year?

Only for brows unploughed by care,
Eyes that glisten with hope and mirth,
Cheeks unwrinkled, and unblanched hair,
Shines this holiday of the earth.

THE NEW AND THE OLD.

Under the grass, with the clammy clay,

Lie in darkness the last year's flowers, Born of a light that has passed away,

Dews long dried, and forgotten showers.

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"Under the grass is the fitting home,"
So they whisper, "for such as thou,
When the winter of life is come,

Chilling the blood, and frosting the brow."

THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861.

OFTLY breathes the west wind beside the ruddy forest,

SOF

Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies. Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November, Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies.

Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows,
Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave the new,
Spared the autumn rose and the garden's group of pansies,
Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue.

On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered; Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson,
Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green.
Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing

With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.

Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me; Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here; Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me,

Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year.

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THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861.

Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are withered; Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast, When, upon the hillside, all hardened into iron,

Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast.

Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer
With delight on nature, or hope on human kind;
Oh may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me

Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mina.