And see! how fast advancing o'er the plain
The lavish autumn comes in rosy triumph,
Waving his golden hair: yon blooming mallow
That opes its red lip to the kiss of day,
Just tells his coming, then retires unseen,
To join his sister tribes in Flora's bower.

Körner.

Autumn departs.—From Gala's fields no more Come rural sounds, our kindred banks to cheer; Blest with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er, No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear; The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear; And harvest-home hath hush'd the clanging wain; Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain.

Deem'st thou, these sadden'd scenes have pleasure still?

Lov'st thou through autumn's fading realms to stray,

To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill,
To listen to the wood's expiring lay,

To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,

To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain; O'er the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain?—

O! if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel's

strain.

Season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless

Scott.

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Keats.

But see the fading many-coloured woods,
Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round
Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dim
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.

Thomson.

Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief,
Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf:
The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods
Roared with strong blasts, with mighty showers the
floods:

All green was vanished save of pine and yew,
That still displayed their melancholy hue;
Save the green holly with its berries red,

And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread.

Crabbe.

AVARICE.

AND greedy Avarice by him did ride
Upon a camell loaden all with gold;
Two iron coffers hung on either side,

With precious metall full as they might hold,
And in his lap an heap of coin he told;
For of his wicked pelf his god he made,
And unto hell himself for money sold;
Accursed usury was all his trade,

And right and wrong ylike in equall balance waide.

His life was nigh unto death's dore yplaste; And threadbare cote and cobbled shoes he ware, He scarce good morsell all his life did taste, But both from backe and belly still did spare, To fill his bags, and richesse to compare; Yet child, ne kinsman, living had he none To leave them to; but thorough daily care To get, and nightly fear to lose his owne; He led a wretched life unto himselfe unknowne.

Most wretched wight whom nothing might suffice, Whose greedy lust did lack in greatest store, Whose need had end, but no end covetise, Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him poor, Who had enough, yet wished evermore.

There grows

In my most ill-composed affection, such
A stanchless avarice, that were I king,

Spenser.

I should cut off the nobles for their lands.-Shakspere.

This avarice of praise in times to come,
Those long inscriptions crowded on the tomb.

Dryden.

Unnumbered maladies man's joints invade,
Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade,
But unextinguished avarice still remains,
And dreaded losses aggravate his pains;
He turns with anxious heart and crippled hands
His bonds of debt and mortgages of lands;
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes,

Unlocks his gold, and counts ít till he dies.-Johnson

Of age's avarice I cannot see

What colour, ground, or reason there can be;
Is it not folly, when the way we ride
Is short, for a long voyage to provide?
To avarice some title youth may own,
To reap in autumn what a spring had sown;
And with the providence of bees or ants,
Prevent with summer's plenty winter's wants.
But age scarce sows, ere death stands by to reap,
And to a stranger's hand transfers the heap.

Pale avarice in vulgar minds
Ambition's place doth hold,
And as the tyrant's bane is steel,
The miser's curse is gold;
Both make that costly sacrifice
Unto the means of ends;

Both start alike, to gain a good
That neither comprehends.

Denham.

C. C. Colton.

74

AVENGE.

AWKWARDNESS.

AVENGE.

ALL those great battles which thou boasts to win Through strife and bloodshed, and avengement, Now praised, hereafter thou shalt repent.

Spenser.

Till Jove, no longer patient, toɔk his time,
To avenge with thunder your audacious crime.

Ere this he had returned with fury driven
By his avengers; since no place like this
Can fit his punishment nor their revenge.

But just disease to luxury succeeds,
And every death its own avenger breeds.

Dryden.

Milton.

A wrong avenged is doubly perpetrated,
Two sinners stand where lately stood but one.

Pope.

T. Mc' Kellar.

AWKWARDNESS.

WHAT's a fine person, or a beauteous face,
Unless deportment gives them decent grace?
Bless'd with all other requisites to please,
Some want the striking elegance of ease,
The curious eye their awkward movement tires,
They seem like puppets led about by wires.

*

*

*

*

*

Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully, or standing still,
One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,

Desirous seems to run away from t' other.-Churchill.

Not all the pumice of the polished town
Can smooth the roughness of the barn-yard clown;
Rich, honour'd, titled, he betrays his race

By this one mark-he's awkward in his face.

O. W. Holmes.

BABE.

THUS, like a sailor by the tempest hurl'd
Ashore, the babe is shipwrecked on the world;
Naked he is, and ready to expire,

Helpless of all that human wants require;

Exposed upon inhospitable earth,

From the first moment of his hapless birth;
Straight with foreboding cries he fills the room,
Too sure presages of his future doom.

Dryden, from Lucretius.

The babe had all that infant care beguiles,

And early knew his mother in her smiles.-Dryden. A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and love;

A resting-place for innocence on earth, a link between angels and men;

Yet is it a talent of trust, a loan to be rendered back with interest;

A delight, but redolent with care; honey sweet, but lacking not the bitter.

For character groweth day by day, and all things aid it in unfolding;

And the bent unto good or evil may be given in the hours of infancy.

BAIT.

M. F. Tupper.

AND that same glorious beauty's idle boast,
Is but a bait, such wretches to beguile.

What so strong,

But wanting rest will also want of might?

The sun, that measures heaven all day long,

Spenser.

At night doth bait his steeds the ocean waves among.

Spenser.

Oh, cunning enemy! that to catch a saint,
With saints dost bait thy hook! most dangerous
Is that temptation that doth goad us on
To sin in loving virtue.

Shakspere.