Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into the distance, grey upon the grey.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfal of her hair;
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care.
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower, and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's-she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light.
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear-
Enough of chilly droppings from her brow-
Enough of fear and shadowy despair

To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

AUTUMN SCENE IN ENGLAND.

BUT see the fading, many-colour'd woods!
Shade deepening over shade the country round
Embrown; 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-strown walks,
And give the season in its latest view.

Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm
Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave

Hood.

Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn
The gentle current; while illumined wide,
The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,
And through their lucid veil his soften'd 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.

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 remain'd
Of stronger fruits, falls from the naked tree,
And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around
The desolated prospect thrills the soul.

OCTOBER.

Thomson.

Y, thou art welcome, Heaven's delicious breath,
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns
grow brief,

And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny south! oh still delay

In the gay woods and in the golden air,

Like to a good old age released from care,

Journeying, in long serenity, away.

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I

Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,

And music of kind voices ever nigh;

And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

Bryant.