And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven He, who, from zone to zone, THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN. THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, sere. Heap'd in the hollews of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead, They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood, In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves-the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours: The rain is falling where they lie-but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. glow; But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now when comes the calm mild day-as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. THE sad and solemn night Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious hosts of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires: Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. Alone, in thy cold skies, Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done; High towards the star-lit sky Towns blaze-the smoke of battle blots the sun- And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wreck'd mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. 402 STUDIES IN POETRY. And, therefore, bards of old, A beauteous type of that unchanging good, 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 color'd landscape round, I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest 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, Where now the solemn shade, Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, And glimmerings of the sun. Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Oh, Autumn! why so soon Ah, 't were a lot too blest 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. AN INDIAN STORY. I KNOW where the timid fawn abides I know where the young May violet grows, On the mossy bank, where the larch tree throws And that timid fawn starts not with fear Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks He goes to the chase-but evil eyes The boughs in the morning wind are stirr'd, And Maquon has promis'd his dark-hair'd maid, A good red deer from the forest shade, The hollow woods, in the setting sun, He stops near his bower-his eye perceives At once, to the earth his burden he heaves, But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, But where is she who at this calm hour, It is not a time for idle grief, Nor a time for tears to flow; The horror that freezes his limbs is brief- And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, "T was early summer when Maquon's bride |