The twilight now has closed; but all the scene Of wonders is not ended. Crowning all, The mystic Night, with all her train of worlds, Appears sublime in beauty. Fancy now Escapes from earth, and soars beyond the stars. Dear sister, so let our short day be spent, That when our sun is set, its parting beams May shine on years yet distant; and when Time Has whelmed us in the wreck of all that's gone, Our rising may be joyous!
THE mountain streams are silent, Or whisper faint and low, The Earth is grateful to the dews For moisture which the clouds refuse,- Blow, west wind! blow!
And fall, O gentle Rain!
Awake the music of the bowers, Unfold the beauty of the flowers ;- The corn-fields long to hear thy voice, And woods and orchards will rejoice To see thee, gentle Rain!
It comes! The gushing wealth descends! Hark! how it patters on the leaves ! Hark! how it drips fom cottage eaves!- The pastures and the clouds are friends- Drop gently, gentle Rain! The fainting corn-stalk lifts its head, The grass grows greener at thy tread, The woods are musical again : And from the hill-side springing, Down comes the torrent singing, With grateful nature in accord, A full-voiced anthem to the Lord, To thank Him for the Rain!
O WITH what glory comes and goes the year!- The buds of Spring-those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times-enjoy Life's newness, and Earth's garniture spread out; And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the cluster'd trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillar'd clouds. Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The rustling wind-a sweet and gentle wooer- Kisses the blushing leaf and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep crimson'd,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,- Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves; the purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,- A winter bird,—comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings ; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
O what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well perform'd, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn that death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.
NAY, William, nay, not so! the changeful year, In all its due successions to my sight, Presents but varied beauties, transient all, All in their season good. These fading leaves, That with their rich variety of hues
Make yonder forest in the slanting sun So beautiful, in you awake the thought
Of winter,-cold, drear winter, when these trees, Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch
Its bare brown boughs; when not a flower shall spread Its colours to the day, and not a bird Carol its joyance, but all nature wear One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. To me their many-colour'd beauties speak Of times of merriment and festival, The year's best holiday; I call to mind The schoolboy days, when in the falling leaves I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign Of coming Christmas; when at morn I took My wooden calendar, and, counting up Once more its often-told account, smooth'd off Each day with more delight the daily notch. To you the beauties of the autumnal year Make mournful emblems, and you think of man Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken, Bending beneath the burden of his years, Sense-dull'd and fretful, "full of aches and pains," Yet clinging still to life. To me they show The calm decay of nature when the mind Retains its strength, and in the languid eye Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy
That makes old age look lovely. All to you Is dark and cheerless; you, in this fair world, See some destroying principle abroad, Air, earth, and water full of living things, Each on the other preying; and the ways Of man, a strange perplexing labyrinth, Where crimes and miseries, each producing each,
Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope
That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend, That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see Death still producing life, and evil still
Working its own destruction; couldst behold The strifes and troubles of this troubled world With the strong eye that sees the promised day Dawn through this night of tempest! All things then Would minister to joy; then should thy heart
Be heal'd and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel God, always, everywhere, and all in all.
THE LAST DAY OF AUTUMN.
THE year lies dying in this evening light: The poet, musing in autumnal woods, Hears melancholy sighs
Among the wither'd leaves.
Not so! but like a spirit purified, The angel of the year departs; lays down His robes, once green in spring,
Or bright with summer's blue;
And having done his mission on the earth- Filling ten thousand vales with golden corn, Orchards with rosy fruit,
And scattering flowers around,
He lingers for a moment in the west With the declining sun,-sheds over all A pleasant, farewell smile-
And so returns to God.
Now Autumn strews on every plain, His mellow fruits and fertile grain; And laughing Plenty, crown'd with sheaves, With purple grapes, and spreading leaves,
In rich profusion pours around Her flowing treasures on the ground. Oh! mark the great, the liberal hand, That scatters blessings o'er the land; And to the God of nature raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise !
The infant corn, in vernal hours, He nurtured with his gentle showers, And bade the summer clouds diffuse Their balmy store of genial dews. He mark'd the tender stem arise, Till ripen'd by the glowing skies, And now, matured, his work behold, The cheering harvest waves in gold. To nature's God with joy we raise The grateful song, the hymn of praise'
The valleys echo to the strains Of blooming maids and viilage swains- To Him they tune the lay sincere, Whose bounty crowns the smiling year. The sounds from every woodland borne, The sighing winds that bend the corn, The yellow fields around proclaim His mighty, everlasting name. To nature's God united raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise!
HARVEST HOME.
MEN of sinew! hale and hearty, Brave at scythe and sickle, come; Come and swell our gleesome party, Reapers, sturdy reapers, come! Time for all things, this for leisure; Time for all things, this for pleasure; Sing our merry Harvest-home!
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