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164

AUTUMN WOODS.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?

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;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed

For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft southwest

To rove and dream for aye;

AUTUMN WOODS.

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.

165

A WINTER PIECE.

THE time has been that these wild solitudes, Yet beautiful as wild-were trod by me

Oftener than now; and when the ills of life

Had chafed my spirit-when the unsteady pulse
Beat with strange flutterings-I would wander forth
And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path

Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills,

The quiet dells retiring far between,
With gentle invitation to explore
Their windings, were a calm society
That talked with me and soothed me.

Then the chant

Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress
Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget
The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began
To gather simples by the fountain's brink,
And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood
In nature's loneliness, I was with one

With whom I early grew familiar, one

Who never had a frown for me, whose voice
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole

From cares I loved not, but of which the world

Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,

A WINTER PIECE.

And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades,

That met above the merry rivulet,

167

Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still,-they seemed Like old companions in adversity.

Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,

Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay
As with its fringe of summer flowers.

Afar,

The village with its spires, the path of streams,
And dim receding valleys, hid before
By interposing trees, lay visible

Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts
Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come
Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,
Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,
And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard
Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee,
Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,
That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,
Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.
The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,
And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent
Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry

A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,

Through the snow

The partridge found a shelter.
The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track
Of fox, and the racoon's broad path were there,
Crossing each other. From his hollow tree,

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A WINTER PIECE.

The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway
Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.

But winter has yet brighter scenes,-he boasts Splendours beyond what gorgeous Summer knows; Or Autumn, with his many fruits, and woods

All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice; While the slant sun of February pours

Into the bowers a flood of light.

Approach!

The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,
And the broad arching portals of the grove
Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,

That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.
But round the parent stem the long low boughs
Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide
The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot,
The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,
Deep in the womb of earth-where the gems grow,
And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud
With amethyst and topaz-and the place
Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam
That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
And fades not in the glory of the sun;-
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles

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