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.