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The pale descending year, yet pleasing still,
A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf
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 remained
Of stronger fruits, falls from the naked tree,
And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around
The desolated prospect thrills the soul.

JAMES THOMSON, 1700-1748

INDIAN SUMMER.

It is the season when the light of dreams
Around the year in golden glory lies-
The heavens are full of floating mysteries,
And in the lake the vailed splendor gleams!
Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,
Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,
While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance.
The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,
Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake.
There the frail maples, and the faithful firs
By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake
Skirts the low pool, and starred with open burrs
The chestnut stands; but when the north-wind stirs,
How like an armed host the summoned scene shall wake!

AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE.

Far and wide

Nature is smiling in her loveliness.

Masses of wood, green strips of fields, ravines

Shown by their outlines drawn against the hills,

T. B. READ.

Chimneys and roofs, trees, single and in groups,
Bright curves of brooks, and vanishing mountain-to
Expand upon my sight, October's brush

The scene has color'd; not with those broad hues
Mix'd in his later pallet by the frost,

And dash'd upon the picture till the eye
Aches with varied splendor, but in tints
Left by light, scatter'd touches. Overhead
There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky,
A silvery sheet with spaces of soft blue;
A trembling vail of gauze is stretch'd athwart
The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks;
A soothing quiet broods upon the air,
And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness.
Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark-
The bleat-the tinkle-whistle-blast of horn-
The rattle of the wagon-wheel—the low—
The fowler's shot-the twitter of the bird,
And e'en the hum of converse from the road.
The grass, with its low insect-tones, appears
As murmuring in its sleep. This butterfly
Seems as if loth to stir, so lazily

It flutters by. In fitful starts, and stops,
The locust sings. The grasshopper breaks out
In brief, harsh strains, amid its pausing chirps.
The beetle, glistening in its sable mail,

Slow climbs the clover-tops, and e'en the ant
Darts round less eagerly.

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The mountains that enfold

In their wide sweep the colored 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 splendors glow-
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewn 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,
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

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

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright! Their sunny-colored 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.

Beneath 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 bless'd

Forever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amid the tresses of the soft southwest,
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.

WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

XXI.

Medley.

M

A WISH.

INE be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear,

A willowy brook that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were giv'n,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heav'n.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

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