SONNET ON AUTUMN.

BY DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON, ESQ.

Author of " Sonnets and other Poems."

How sadly moans the bleak autumnal blast
O'er faded summer's tomb! The drifting shower
Is pattering on the lone deserted bower;
While, fitfully, the sear leaves rustle past!
Along the troubled sky, lo! gathering fast,
In fiercely-frowning hosts, the storm-clouds lower,
And shroud the struggling sun! The fearful power
Of desolation rules, and all is overcast !
-Yet mourn not, wanderer! glories that have been,
Nor dream of vanished joys! Though thus depart
The light and bloom of this terrestrial scene,
And earthly visions mock the cheated heart,
There are celestial hopes no fate may part,
And cloudless realms eternally serene!

COUNTRY AND TOWN.

BY HORATIO SMITH, ESQ.

HORRID, in country shades to dwell!
One, positively, might as well
Be buried in the quarries;

No earthly object to be seen,

But cows and geese upon a green,
As sung by Captain Morris.--

One's moped to death with cawing crows, Or silent fields;-and as for beaux,

One's optics it surprises

To see a decent animal,

Unless at some half-yearly ball,

That graces the assizes.

O! the unutterable bliss

Of changing such a wilderness,

For London's endless frolic!

Where concerts, operas, dances, plays, Chase, from the cheerful nights and days, All vapours melancholic !

There, every hour its tribute brings
The future comes on golden wings,

Some new delight to tender;
And life,-deprived of all alloy,-
Is one unceasing round of joy,
Festivity, and splendour.

So cries the rural nymph!-while they, The wearied, disappointed prey

Of London's heartless riot, Sick of the hollow joys it yields,

Gladly, withdraw to groves and fields, In search of peace and quiet!

O, happiness!-in vain we chase
Thy shadow, and attempt to trace
Its ever-changing dances;
Like the horizon's line, thou art
Seen on all sides,-but sure to start
From every one's advances!

AUTUMN.

BY T. HOOD, ESQ.

Author of " Odes and Addresses to Great People."

THE autumn is old,

The sear leaves are flying ;

He hath gathered up gold,

And now he is dying ;—

Old age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe,

The harvest is heaping,-
But some that have sowed
Have no riches for reaping;
Poor wretch, fall a weeping!

The year's in the wane,
There is nothing adorning,

The night hath no eve,

And the day hath no morning;-
Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill,

The red sun is sinking;

And I am grown old,

And life is fast shrinking;—

Here's enow for sad thinking!