bouring wood, whose varied hues are becoming deeper and deeper. The merry voices of the cottage children, mingling with the shout of the stranger to the distant ferryman, come floating upwards, and are wafted away on the sweet air. The river-weir sounds with a deeper murmur, as the labours of the old water-mill have ceased; and the far distant sheep-bell rings with a more drowsy tinkling ;-while over all the keep of the old castle, grey with antiquity, unscathed by the tempests of heaven, as well as by the tempests of earth and the rush of armed and impetuous men, looks down upon this fair scene with the stern majesty of centuries, with the austere frown of bold defiance, and with the immoveable firmness of a barbarous age. Yet the melodious, the illumined valley gives back gentleness for austerity, composure for sternness, and harmonious beauty and tranquil refinement for unflinching boldness and savage barbarity, as the sun with more softened splendour sinks peacefully to the west, yet leaving behind the traces of his matchless glory, and drawing around the earth the starry curtains of serenity and repose. Night closes

And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,
Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep,
As is the difference 'twixt day and night,
The hour before the heavenly-harnessed team
Begins his golden progress in the east."*

* Henry IV.

THE WINDS OF AUTUMN.

Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks,
The chillest blasts our peace invade,

And by great rains our smallest brooks

Are almost navigable made.

COTTON. Eclogue.

Up, bird of the sky, from the humble furrow! -cleave the blue heights skyward to the gate of heaven; and pour on the earth below gushes of genuine melody to charm all hearts, until thy fluttering form has dwindled to a mere speck, and become lost to the sight! The call is vain. Thine hours of heart-felt melody have fled. Guided by an unerring hand, thou hast sought a more favourable locality. The smiling, dove-eyed Spring, too, has blushed into the richness and merged into the maturity of Summer. Summer, like a bright, angelic spirit who has paid a transient visit to "this dim spot which men call earth," overshadowing the land

with the wings of celestial glory-Summer, having fulfilled her own beneficent purposes, has taken wing and fled to other and far-off regions, casting below her once-gorgeous mantle which has been caught by sober and matronlike Autumn-a mantle of many colours, but assuming, as dies the dolphin, hue after hue and tint after tint, until the robe of death is spread over the land, to be followed by the chill winding-sheet of unsullied stainless snow. It is well that it should be so. There is a time for sorrow and a time for joy. Good springs from both.

"How many things by season season'd are To their right praise and true perfection!" There is something peculiarly mournful in the Winds of Autumn. Many circumstances contribute to give to these heralds of the season, their peculiar characteristic. The countless flowers of the late enamelled meadows and of the once fragrant woods, have shrunk within themselves and are sleeping the sleep of death. The rich, full chorus of the sylvan sanctuary has died into a low and distant murmur. away The rich and waving sea of summer foliage has lost its hues of varied green; and, instead of that gently undulating motion which lately prevailed, or that unruffled calmness which slept beneath

the warmth and brilliancy of a cloudless summer sun, the Winds of Autumn, hurrying onwards with sudden, revengeful gusts, lash the boughs into fury with a devastating mournful roar. It is true, that the tints of Autumn presented around, are far more varied and more striking in their character than any during the effulgence of Summer. The maple has now put on its robe of saffron and gold. The beech, laying aside its bright green summer robe, has

assumed the sober mantle of russet. The ash has shaken her flowing tresses, and they are falling at the touch of even the slightest breath. The oak is stern and stedfast amid all change, as if extremely loath to part with its summer robe; while the elm, the chesnut, and the sycamore have each assumed its peculiar dress, soon, however, to be cast aside for that of the night of leafless winter. But the yew, the holly, the laurel, and the numerous tribe of evergreens, remain unchanged and inflexible amid a scene where all else is changeful and fleeting. These contribute to give a pleasant variety of hues to the thick woods, the snug copses, and the belts of plantings. Along the lines of the hedge-rows the thorn trees are rich with crimson haws; and the wild rose has hung her vermillion ear-drops on