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And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Heap'd in the hollews of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead, They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood top calls the crow, through all the gloomy
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood,
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood!
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The windflower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died, amid the summer's glow;
But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.
And now when comes the calm mild day-as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR.
And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief;
THE sad and solemn night
Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires;
Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires:
Her constellations come, and round the heavens, and go.
Day, too, hath many a star
To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they :
Unseen they follow in his flaming way:
And thou dost see them rise,
Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.
Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet,
There, at morn's rosy birth,
Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air,
Chases the day, beholds thee watching there;
Alike, beneath thine eye,
The deeds of darkness and of light are done;
High towards the star-lit sky
Towns blaze-the smoke of battle blots the sun-
And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.
On thy unaltering blaze
The half-wreck'd mariner, his compass lost,
And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast;
And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night,
Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.
And, therefore, bards of old,
A beauteous type of that unchanging good,
ERE, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The mountains that infold
In their wide sweep, the color'd 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 southwest 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,
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;
The rivulet, late unseen,
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
But 'neath yon crimson tree,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,
Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Ah, 't were a lot too blest
For ever in thy colour'd shades to stray
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.
I KNOW where the timid fawn abides
Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides,
I know where the young May violet grows,
On the mossy bank, where the larch tree throws
And that timid fawn starts not with fear
Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks
He goes to the chase-but evil eyes
The boughs in the morning wind are stirr'd,
And Maquon has promis'd his dark-hair'd maid,
A good red deer from the forest shade,
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin door shall lie.
The hollow woods, in the setting sun,
He stops near his bower-his eye perceives
But the vines are torn on its walls that leant,
By struggling hands have the leaves been rent,
But where is she who at this calm hour,
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower,
It is not a time for idle grief,
Nor a time for tears to flow;
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief-
And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet,
"T was early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door;