While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy fav'rite name!

COLLINS.

ODE TO AUTUMN.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun,
Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To blend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel: to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees;

Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er brimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft beneath thy store?

Sometime whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,

As on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swarth and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ;

Or by a cyder-press with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows borne aloft,

Or smiling as the light wind lives or dies;

And full grown lambs beat loud from hilly bourns. Hedge crickets sing: and now with treble soft,

The red-breast whistles from a garden croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

JOHN KEATS.

THE WISH TO DIE.

My mother, look not on me now
With that sad earnest eye;

Blame me not, mother-blame not thou
My heart's last wish-to die!

I cannot wrestle with the strife
I once had heart to bear;
And if I yield a youthful life,
Full hath it been of care.

Nay, weep not!-on my brow is set age of grief-not years;

The

Its furrows thou may'st wildly wet,

But ne'er wash out with tears.
And couldst thou see my weary heart,
Too weary e'en to sigh,

Oh, mother, mother! thou wouldst start,
""Twere best to die!"

And say,

I know 'tis summer on the earth-
I hear a pleasant tune,

Of waters in their chiming mirth-
I feel the breath of June;
The roses through my lattice look,
The bee goes singing by,

The peasant takes his harvest-hook-
Yet, mother, let me die!

There's nothing in this time of flowers
That hath a voice for me-

The whispering leaves, the sunny hours,
The bright, the glad, the free!
There's nothing but thy own deep love,
And that will live on high;

Then mother! when my heart's above,
Kind mother, let me die!

MISS JEWSBURY,

VIRTUE LIVETH AFTER DEATH.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on Kings: Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still;
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds:

All heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

SHIRLEY.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.