THE FOREST-LEAVES IN AUTUMN. FROM "THE CHRISTIAN YEAR." Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun; Now the tir'd hunter winds a parting note, How like decaying life they seem to glide! And yet no second spring have they in store; But where they fall forgotten, to abide Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing; A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold; Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around Man's portion is to die and rise again- Yet he complains; while these unmurmuring part ΒΟΗΕΜΙΑΝ ANCIENT SONG. O ye forests, dark-green forests, Why in summer, and in winter, Are ye green and blooming? JOHN KEBLE. But now tell me, good folk, tell me, Ah! where is my dear father? Woe! he lies deep buried. Where my mother? O good mother! O'er her grows the grass! Brothers have I not, nor sisters, And my lad is gone! Translated by TALVI. LANDSCAPE AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. I wake, I rise; from end to end, Of all the landscape underneath, No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw, That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor rivulet trickling from the rock, From left to right through meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; I think once more he seems to die. ALFRED TENNYSON. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine is, too, the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed! W. WORDSWorth, 1770-1850. So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year: be calm and mild, January gray is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier March, with grief, doth howl and rave; And April weeps-but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792-1822. ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY. Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem, This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE, 1770-1849. FEBRUARY. Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new year, delaying long, What stays thee from the clouded noons, Bring orchis-bring the fox-glove spire, |