So once on Judah's evening hills
The heavenly lustre spread!
The Gospel sounded from the blaze,
And shepherds gazed with dread.

And still that light upon the world
Its guiding splendour throws,-
Bright in the opening hours of life,
But brighter at the close.

The waning moon in time shall fail
To walk the midnight skies;

But God hath kindled this bright light
With fire that never dies.

PEABODY.

AUTUMN'S VOICES.

Autumn Musings.

WRITTEN IN THE TROSSACHS.

HERE'S not a nook within this solemn pass
But were an apt confessional, for one

Taught, by his summer spent his autumn gone,

That life is but a tale of morning grass

Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,-

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes, more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy guest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

WORDSWORTH.

T

November.

HE autumn wind is moaning low, the requiem of the year;

The days are growing short again, the fields forlorn and sere;

The sunny sky is waxing dim, and chill the hazy air; And tossing trees before the breeze are turning brown and bare.

All nature and her children now prepare for rougher days;

The squirrel makes his winter-bed and hazel hoard

purveys;

The sunny swallow spreads his wings to seek a brighter

sky;

And boding owl with nightly howl, says, cloud and storm are nigh.

No more 'tis sweet to walk abroad among the evening

dews;

The flowers have fled from every path with all their scents and hues ;

The joyous bird no more is heard, save where his slender

song

The robin drops, as meek he hops the withered leaves

among.

Those withered leaves, that slender song, a solemn truth

convey;

In wisdom's ear they speak aloud of frailty and decay;

They say, that man's apportioned year shall have its winter too,

Shall rise and shine, and then decline, as all around him do.

They tell him all he has on earth, his brightest, dearest things,

His loves and friendships, joys and hopes,—have all their falls and springs:

A wave upon a moon-lit sea, a leaf before the blast,

A summer flower, an April hour that gleams and hurries past.

And be it so. I know it well: myself, and all that's mine,
Must roll on with the rolling year, and ripen to decline.
I do not shun the solemn truth: to him it is not drear
Whose hopes can rise above the skies and see a Saviour

near.

It only makes him feel with joy this earth is not his home: It sends him on from present ills to brighter hours to

come;

It bids him take with thankful heart whate'er his God may send,

Content to go, through weal or woe, to glory in the end.

Then murmur on, ye wintry winds, remind me of my doom; Ye lengthened nights still image forth the darkness of the tomb;

Eternal summer lights the heart where Jesus deigns to shine:

I mourn no loss, I shun no cross, so Thou, O Lord, art mine!

A

A Mother to her Child.

"The grass withereth, the flower fadeth."

H, why, you'll ask, should youth decay?
Why fade the new-born flowers

That strew the path of life's brief day

In childhood's happy hours?

And why should friends cut off so soon,
Like falling leaves around us strewn,

So sadly warn us, that though life be dear

And sweet the ties it weaves, we cannot linger here?

'Tis hard, you say, to leave our home

And all its pleasant rest,

Sweet thoughts of years of joy to come

With those that we love best;

Then see them fade and die away,

Like leaves that wither on the spray,

While sorrow's lengthening nights their shadows cast, And tell us all too soon that life's brief summer's past.