And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile, The sweetest of the year. 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? Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light. The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen, And glimmerings of the sun. But 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame. Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed For ever in thy coloured shades to stray; To rove and dream for aye; 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. MUTATION. A SONNET. THEY talk of short-lived pleasure-be it so- And after dreams of horror, comes again Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease: Are fruits of innocence and blessedness: Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release His young limbs from the chains that round him press. Weep not that the world changes—did it keep A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep. NOVEMBER. A SONNET. YET one smile more, departing, distant sun! One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. I BUCKLE to my slender side The pistol and the scimitar, And in my maiden flower and pride Am come to share the tasks of war. And yonder stands my fiery steed, That paws the ground and neighs to go, My charger of the Arab breed, I took him from the routed foe. My mirror is the mountain spring, And wash away the blood-stain there. It was for one-oh, only one I kept its bloom, and he is dead. But they who slew him-unaware |