Autumn Woods. Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, 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 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, 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, Her blush of maiden shame. Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad,— Ah! 't were a lot too blessed For ever in thy coloured shades to stray; 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. BRYANT Eve to Adam. WITH thee conversing I forget all time, MILTON. FROM The Passionate Pilgrim. Crabbed age and youth Cannot live together; Youth is full of pleasance, Youth like summer morn, Age like winter weather: Youth like summer brave, Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame Age, I do abhor thee, Youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young; Age, I do defy thee; O, sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stayest too long. SHAKSPEARE. Each and All. LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, The sexton tolling the bell at noon, Dreams not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lifts with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent: I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, |