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Now that the flowers have faded, 'tis the turn
Of leaves to flaunt in all their gayest dyes.
'Tis Autumn's gala : every dryad vies In decking out her bower. How richly burn
The gorgeous masses in the amber skies, Where to the West, the valley, with its stream, Is shut with woods that drink the setting beam !
There by its crimson foliage one descries The cherry, thrown out by the auburn shades
Of beech, with russet oak, and hoary sallow, And greenest ash, bearing its golden keys,
With here and there wych-elm of paler yellow.
look can please.
There is, I think, no sunshine like the sky
Of those mild, breezy, cloudless Autumn days,
Which tempt once more abroad the butterfly
To search for lingering flowers; when the green
sprays Of ash, now loosen'd, drop on him who strays Through woodland paths, while the light yellow leaves
Of fading trees come dancing down all ways, Like winged things; and oft the stream receives Full many a tiny voyager, whirld along
Amid its eddies ;—when the gossamer spreads
O'er the fresh clods her trembling silvery threads; And Robin, thinly screen’d, his sweetest song Pours forth, as if, triumphant o'er the scene, He said, Spring will return, and all again be green.
Spring, Summer, Autumn! Priestesses that hold
Alternate watch at Nature's altar! Deep
And full of mystery the course ye keep, In hidden sympathy. First, chastely cold,
Thou, Vestal Spring, most gently dost unfold
The oracles of Nature, and from sleep
peep. Thou, Summer, dost inscribe in living gold
The fullness of each promise sibylline,
And mak’st in part the bright fruition thine, Murmuring soft music from her leafy fane:
Till Autumn's stores reveal in corn and wine
The meaning shut in every bud and grain.
'Twas not when early flowers were springing,
When skies were shcen,
And wheat was green,
And birds of love were singing,
That first I lov'd thee, or that thou
Didst first the tender claim allow.
For when the silent woods had faded
From green to yellow,
And the chang'd skies o'ershaded,
My love might then have shared decay,
Or pass'd with summer's songs away.
'Twas winter: cares and clouds were round me,
Instead of flowers
And sunny hours,
Dear are the hours of summer weather,
When all is bright,
And Love and Nature joy together.
LOVE, HOPE, AND FANCY.
“ SISTER! what
Is on thy bosom sleeping ?
To Fancy's lonely keeping?"
Fancy was bending o'er the child,
Enwrapt in pensive musing. - Ah! is it thou ?” she said, and smiled,
A blush her charms suffusing.
“ But tell me, Hope, to this lone glen
What leads thy footstep daring ? What news from the abodes of men,
And whither art repairing ?"