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Where, all in murky vapors drown'd,
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Though Thomson, sweet, descriptive bard!

Inspiring Autumn sung;

Yet how should he the months regard,
That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah, luckless months, of all the rest,
To whose hard share it fell!
For sure his was the gentlest breast
That ever sung so well.

And see, the swallows now disown
The roofs they loved before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad some happier shore.

The wood-nymph eyes with pale affright
The sportsman's frantic deed,
While hounds, and horns, and yells unite
To drown the Muse's reed.

Ye fields! with blighted herbage brown;

Ye skies! no longer blue;

Too much we feel from Fortune's frown,
To bear these frowns from you.

Where is the mead's unsullied green?
The zephyr's balmy gale?

And where sweet Friendship's cordial mien
That brighten'd every vale?

What though the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple store,

Not all the vineyard's rich supplies

Can soothe our sorrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whose social vein
Surpass'd the power of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,

In yon sequester'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise,

To him and friendly love.

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Lead me to the bowery shade,
Late with roses flaunting;
Loved resort of youth and maid,
Amorous ditties chaunting;
Hail and storm with fury shower.
Leafless mourns the rifled bower!

Say, where bides the village maid,
Late yon cot adorning?

Oft I've met her in the glade,

Fair and fresh as morning.

Swain, how short is beauty's bloom!
Seek her in the grassy tomb!

Whither roves the tuneful swain,

Who of rural pleasures,
Rose and violet, rill and plain,
Sung in dulcet measures?
Maiden, swift life's vision flies,
Death has closed the poet's eyes!

Translation of BERESFORD.

JOHAN GEORG. JACOBI, 1740-1814.

AUTUMN SCENE IN ENGLAND.

But see the fading, many-color'd woods,
Shade deepening over shade the country round
Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,
Of every hue, from wan declining green
To sooty dark-these now the lonesome Muse,
Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks,
And give the season in its latest view.

Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm
Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave
Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn
The gentle current; while illumin'd wide,
The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,
And through their lucid vail his softened force
Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time
For those whom wisdom and whom Nature charm,
To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd,
And soar above this little scene of things;
To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet;
To soothe the throbbing passions into peace,
And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.

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-top
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.

ALFRED STREET.

AUTUMN WOODS.

Ere, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.

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.

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