Lead me to the bowery shade, Late with roses flaunting; Loved resort of youth and maid, Amorous ditties chaunting; Hail and storm with fury shower. Leafless mourns the rifled bower!
Say, where bides the village maid, Late yon cot adorning?
Oft I've met her in the glade,
Fair and fresh as morning.
Swain, how short is beauty's bloom! Seek her in the grassy tomb!
Whither roves the tuneful swain,
Who of rural pleasures, Rose and violet, rill and plain, Sung in dulcet measures? Maiden, swift life's vision flies, Death has closed the poet's eyes!
Translation of BERESFORD.
JOHAN GEORG. JACOBI, 1740-1814.
AUTUMN SCENE IN ENGLAND.
But see the fading, many-color'd woods, Shade deepening over shade the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, Of every hue, from wan declining green
To sooty dark-these now the lonesome Muse, Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks, And give the season in its latest view.
Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn The gentle current; while illumin'd wide, The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, And through their lucid vail his softened force Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time For those whom wisdom and whom Nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things; To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.
The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as studious walk below, And slowly circles through the waving air. But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams; Till choked and matted with the dreary shower, The forest-walks, at every rising gale, Roll wide the wither'd waste, and whistle bleak. Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields, And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race Their sunny robes resign. Even what remained Of stronger fruits, falls from the naked tree, And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around The desolated prospect thrills the soul.
It is the season when the light of dreams Around the year in golden glory lies- The heavens are full of floating mysteries, And in the lake the vailed splendor gleams! Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams, Mantled with mysteries of their own romance, While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance. The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams, Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake. There the frail maples, and the faithful firs By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake Skirts the low pool, and starred with open burrs The chestnut stands; but when the north-wind stirs, How like an armed host the summoned scene shall wake! T. B. READ.
Nature is smiling in her loveliness.
Masses of wood, green strips of fields, ravines
Shown by their outlines drawn against the hills,
Chimneys and roofs, trees, single and in groups, Bright curves of brooks, and vanishing mountain-top Expand upon my sight, October's brush
The scene has color'd; not with those broad hues Mix'd in his later pallet by the frost, And dash'd upon the picture till the eye Aches with varied splendor, but in tints Left by light, scatter'd touches. Overhead There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky, A silvery sheet with spaces of soft blue; A trembling vail of gauze is stretch'd athwart The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks; A soothing quiet broods upon the air, And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness. Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark- The bleat-the tinkle-whistle-blast of horn- The rattle of the wagon-wheel-the low- The fowler's shot--the twitter of the bird, And e'en the hum of converse from the road. The grass, with its low insect-tones, appears As murmuring in its sleep. This butterfly Seems as if loth to stir, so lazily
It flutters by. In fitful starts, and stops, The locust sings. The grasshopper breaks out In brief, harsh strains, amid its pausing chirps. The beetle, glistening in its sable mail,
Slow climbs the clover-tops, and e'en the ant Darts round less eagerly.
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 enfold
In their wide sweep the colored landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.
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