When yellow Autumn decks the plain,
The hawthorn's boughs are green,
Amid the ripening fields of grain,
In emerald brightness seen.
A night of frost, a day of wind,
Have stript the forest bare:
The hawthorn too that blast shall find,
Nor shall that spoiling spare.
But red with fruit, that hawthorn bough,
Though leafless yet will shine;
The blackbird for its hues shall know,
As lapwing knows the vine.
Be thus thy youth as lilies
Thy manhood vigorous green;
And thus let fruit bedeck thy spray, 'Mid age's leafless scene.
MYSTERIOUS plant! whose golden tresses wave
With a sad beauty in the dying year.
Blooming amid November's frost severe,
Like the pale corpse-light o'er the recent grave!
If shepherds tell us true, thy wood has power,
With gracious influence, to avert the harm
Of ominous planets, and the fatal charm
Of spirits wandering at the midnight hour;
And thou canst point where buried treasures lie.
But yet to me thou art an emblem high
Of patient virtue, to the Christian given,
Unchanged and bright, when all is dark beside;
Our shield from wild temptations, and our guide
To treasures for the just laid up in heaven.
'MID scattered foliage pale and sere, Thy kindly floweret cheers the gloom,
And offers to the waning year
The tribute of its golden bloom.
Beneath November's clouded sky,
In chill December's stormy hours,
Thy blossom meets the traveller's eye,
Gay as the buds of summer bowers.
Flower of the dark and wintry day,
Emblem of friendship, thee I hail,
Blooming when others fade away,
And brightest when their hues grow pale.
THE Woods are stripped to the wintry winds,
And faded the flowers that bloomed on the lea,
But one lingering gem the wanderer finds,
"Tis the ruby fruit of the Wild Briar tree.
The strong have bowed down, the beauteous are dead,
The blast through the forest sighs mournfully;
And bared is full many a lofty head,
But there's fruit on the lowly Wild Briar tree.
It has cheered yon bird that so gentle and well
Sings-What are the gaudy flowers to me?
For here will I build my nest and dwell,
By the simple, faithful, Wild Briar tree.
WHAT strange enchantment meets my view,
So wondrous bright and fair ?
Has heaven poured out its silver dew
On the rejoicing air?
Or am I borne to regions new
To see the glories there?
Last eve when sunset filled the sky
With wreaths of golden light,
The trees sent up their arms on high,
All leafless to the sight,
And sleepy mists came down to lie
On the dark breast of night.
But now the scene is changed, and all
Is fancifully new ;
The trees, last eve so straight and tal!,
Are bending on the view,
And streams of living daylight fall
The silvery arches through.
The boughs are strong with glittering pearls,
As dewdrops bright and bland,
And there they gleam in silvery curls,
Like gems of Samarcand,
Seeming in wild fantastic whirls
The works of fairyland.
FEATHERED lyric! warbling high,
Sweetly gaining on the sky-
Opening with thy matin lay
Nature's hymn, the eye of day,
Teach my soul, on early wing,
Thus to soar, and thus to sing!
While the bloom of Orient light
Guides thee in thy tuneful flight,
May the day-spring from on high,
Seen by Faith's religious eye,
Cheer me with his vital ray,
Promise of eternal day!
HARK! in the vale I hear thy evening song,
Sweet Nightingale! It soothes my pensive soul.
Dost thou from day's gay flatterers retire,
As I from tumult of the busy world,
To pour thy sad note on the evening gale?
Night and this still serene full well accord
With feelings such as ours. It is a calm
Healthful and sweet to Nature, when the soul
Plumes all her powers, and imps her drooping wing
For other climes. Yes, songstress of the shade,
We both alike are here brief sojourners,
Waiting the season of our happier change.
Yet from the lone spray cheer the vale awhile,
And listening I will learn content from thee.
SONGSTER of the russet coat,
Full and liquid is thy note;
Plain thy dress, but great thy skill,
Captivating at thy will.
Small musician of the field,
Near my bower thy tribute yield,
Little servant of the ear,
Ply thy task, and never fear.
I will learn from thee to praise
God, the Author of my days;
I will learn from thee to sing,
Christ, my Saviour and my King,
Learn to labour with my voice,
Make the sinking heart rejoice.
CLOSE by the borders of the fringed lake,
And on the oak's expanded bough, is seen,
What time the leaves the passing zephyrs shake,
And gently murmur through the sylvan scene,
The gaudy Pheasant, rich in varying dyes,
That fade alternate, and alternate glow:
Receiving now his colour from the skies,
And now reflecting back the watery bow.
He flaps his wings, erects his spotless crest,
His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray;
He swells the lovely plumage of his breast,
And glares a wonder of the Orient day.
THE mariners with lightsome heart
From their late sheltering cove depart,
Spreading with joy the
snowy sail
To catch the favourable gale;
And why? Because their curious sight
Had marked the Halcyon's landward flight:
Heralds of peace, to seamen dear,
They go their tender brood to rear.
The fearless bird in patience broods,
Till fourteen suns have gilt the floods,
And fourteen nights their dews have shed
Upon her unprotected head:
Then, from their silver prison free,
Her nestlings seek the tranquil sea;
And soon, in azure plumage drest,
Forsake the shelter of the nest;
But till those watching hours are past,
Lest sudden swell or angry blast
Destroy the Halcyon's fragile brood,
The God of Nature stills the flood.
Oh, Christian pilgrim! mark the care
Bestowed upon the fowls of air;
And learn to check each anxious thought,
That would a Father's mercy doubt.
The clouds of earth are round thee now,
The storm is high, thy hopes are low;
But raise thy drooping head and see,
By faith the rest reserved for thee;
Servant of Christ, to thee are given
The endless halcyon days of heaven.
THE KING-FISHER.
THE Halcyon flew across the stream,
And the silver brooklet caught the gleam;
The glittering flash of his dazzling wings
Was such as the gorgeous rainbow flings,
In broken rays through the tearful sky,
On a sunny eve in bright July:
His radiant sheen the trees between,
Like the spangled scarf of a fairy queen,
Was rich to the view, as the gayest hue
Of the brightest flower that ever grew.
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