AFTER A TEMPEST. THE day had been a day of wind and storm ;— My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between. The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard. And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward; To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry That seemed a living blossom of the air. The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where It was a scene of peace-and, like a spell, And glassy river and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley, out of sight, Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene K Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'erlaboured captive toil, and wish his life were done. Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, AUTUMN WOODS. ERE, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, Have put their glory on. The mountains that infold, In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground. I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way. And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,— 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; |