THE dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers;
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers,
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,
And autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.
I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell'd from yonder tree,—
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
There perch'd, and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?
Away,-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.
Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there;
The northern breeze that rustles by
Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;
No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare,
No stream beneath the ice is dead,
No mountain top, with sleety hair,
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.
Go there, with all the birds, and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight; Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek, And leave me lonely with the night! I'll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shone,See that it all is fair and bright, Feel—that it all is cold and gone.
Born in London 1802-died 1828.
I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,—
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,-
The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain;
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain ;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.
to one made up
Of loveliness alone,—
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon.
Her health and would on earth there stood
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
ALBERT GORTON GREENE.
Born at Providence, Rhode Island, 1802-died 1868.
OLD GRIMES is dead! that good old man
We never shall see more:
He used to wear a long black coat,
All button'd down before.
His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray,—
He wore it in a queue.
Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burn'd;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.
Kind words he ever had for all,
He knew no base design;
eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.
He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.
Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes
He pass'd securely o'er;
And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.
But good old GRIMES is now at rest,
Nor fears Misfortune's frown;
He wore a double-breasted vest,-
The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert;
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbours he did not abuse,
Was sociable and gay;
He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view;
Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to Fortune's chances;
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.
Born at Boston, Mass: 1803.
THE POET.
For this present, hard
Is the fortune of the bard
Born out of time;
All his accomplishment,
From nature's utmost treasure spent, Booteth not him.
When the pine tosses its cones
To the song of its waterfall tones,
He speeds to the woodland walks,
To birds and trees he talks:
Cæsar of his leafy Rome,
Where the poet is at home.
He goes to the river side,-
Not hook nor line hath he:
He stands in the meadows wide,-
Nor gun nor scythe to see.
With none has he to do,
And none seek him,
Nor men below,
Nor spirits dim.
What he knows nobody wants:
What he knows, he hides, not vaunts.
Knowledge this man prizes best
Seems fantastic to the rest;
Pondering shadows, colours, clouds,
Grass buds, and caterpillars' shrouds,
Boughs on which the wild bees settle,
Tints that spot the violet's petal,
Why nature loves the number five,
And why the star-form she repeats ;-
Lover of all things alive,
Wonderer at all he meets,
Wonderer chiefly at himself,-
Who can tell him what he is;
Or how meet in human elf
Coming and past eternities! ....
And such I knew, a forest seer,
A minstrel of the natural year,
Foreteller of the vernal ides,
Wise harbinger of spheres and tides,
A lover true, who knew by heart
Each joy the mountain dales impart;
It seem'd that nature could not raise
A plant in any secret place,
In quaking bog, on snowy hill,
Beneath the grass that shades the rill,
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