AUTUMN.

RED o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crowned the eastern copse; and chill and dun
Falls on the moon the brief November day.

Now the tired hunter winds a parting note,

And echo bids good-night from every glade Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float, Each to his rest beneath their parent shade.

How like decaying life they seem to glide

And yet no second spring have they in store; But where they fall, forgotten, to abide,

Is all their portion, and they ask no more.

Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing,

A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold;
The green buds glisten in the dews of spring,
And all be vernal rapture as of old.

Unconscious, they in waste oblivion lie ;—
In all the world of busy life around
No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky
No drop for them of kindly influence found.

Man's portion is to die and rise again,

Yet he complains; while these, unmurmuring, part
With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain
As his, when Eden held his virgin heart.

And haply half-unblamed, his murmuring voice
Might sound in heaven, were all his second life
Only the first renewed-the heathen's choice,

A round of listless joy and weary strife.
For dreary were this earth, if earth were all,

Though brightened oft by dear affection's kiss: Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?

But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss.

Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart:
Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne
On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart

O'er wave or field, yet breezes laugh to scorn Our puny speed; and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at even,—

Who but would follow, might he break his chain? And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free As his transfigured Lord, with lightning form

And snowy vest-such grace He won for thee, When from the grave Не sprung at dawn of morn, And led through boundless air thy conquering road, Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born, Might fearless follow to their blest abode.

But first, by many a stern and fiery blast,

The world's rude furnace must thy blood refineAnd many a gale of keenest wo be passed,

Till every pulse beat time to airs divine,—

Till every limb obey the mounting soul,

The mounting soul the call by Jesus given:
He whom the stormy heart can so control,
The laggard body soon will waft to heaven.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD.

SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies,

Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies,

To fill the heart's fond view?

In childhood's sports, companions gay,
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay

Memorials prompt and true.

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,

As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,

As when ye crowned the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.

Fallen all beside-the world of life,
How is it stained with fear and strife!
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare!

But cheerful and unchanged the while

Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought;-
Ye may be found if ye are sought,
And as we gaze, we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,

And guilty man, where'er he roams,

Your innocent mirth may borrow.

The birds of air before us fleet,

They cannot brook our shame to meet-
But we may taste your solace sweet,
And come again to-morrow.

Ye fearless in your nests abide-

Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,

Your silent lessons, undescried

By all but lowly eyes:

For ye could draw the admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys;
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.

Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,

As when He paused and owned you good;

His blessing on earth's primal bower,

Ye felt it all renewed.

What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.

Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!

"Live for to-day! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight,
Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And heaven thy morn will bless."

ADDRESS TO POETS.

YE whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of poesy,

Heirs of more than royal race,

Framed, by Heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth,
(If the word be not too bold,)

Giving virtue a new birth,

And a life that ne'er grows old

Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Know who hath set your parts?

ye

He, who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you to lead

His hosannas here below;-
Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
Linger not with sin and wo.

But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease-

Angels round His glory-throne,

Stars, His guiding hand that own,

Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,

Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest,

High and low in choir shall meet,

Ere His name shall be unblest.

Lord, by every minstrel tongue
Be thy praise so duly sung,
That thine angels' harps may ne'er
Fail to find fit echoing here!
We the while, of meaner birth,
Who in that divinest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,
Give us grace to listen well.

But should thankless silence seal

Lips that might half-heaven reveal—-
Should bards in idol-hymns profane
The sacred soul-enthralling strain,
(As in this bad world below

Noblest things find vilest using,)

Then, thy power and mercy show,
In vile things noble breath infusing.

Then waken into sound divine

The very pavement of thy shrine,

Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor,
Faintly give back what we adore.
Childlike though the voices be,
And untunable the parts,
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy,

If it flow from childlike hearts.

ГНЕ UNITED STATES:

TYRE of the farther west! be thou too warned,

Whose eagle wings thine own green world o'erspread,

Touching two oceans: wherefore hast thou scorned
Thy fathers' God, O proud and full of bread?