And the dull drops, that from his purpled That scarce his loose limbes he able was to HE blasts of Autumn drive the winged Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet; THE seeds Over the earth; next come the snows, and rain, And frost, and storms, which dreary Winter leads Out of his Scythian cave, a savage train. Behold! Spring sweeps over the world again, Shedding soft dews from her ethereal wings; Flowers on the mountain, fruits over the plain, And music on the waves and woods she flings, And love on all that lives, and calm on lifeless things. O Spring! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness, Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle feet, Disturbing not the leaves which are her winding sheet. Virtue, and Hope, and Love, like light and Heaven, Surround the world; we are their chosen slaves. Has not the whirlwind of our spirit driven Truth's deathless germs to thought's remotest caves? Lo, Winter comes! the grief of many graves, Wind-winged emblem! brightest, best and The frost of death, the tempest of the fairest! Whence comest thou, when, with dark Winter's sadness, The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou sharest? Sister of Joy! thou art the child who wearest sword, The flood of tyranny, whose sanguine waves Stagnate like ice at Faith, the enchanter's word, And bind all human hearts in its repose abhorred. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. From golden service heaped with fruits The waning year drinks from October's cup A ruddier tide now fills the tingling veins And scorns to count the sorrows she hath What matters it if summer's birds have flown, And rustling leaves drift on the upland plains? Though Nature's wide arms bear her precious grains To fragrant hidden garners of her own, Yet what her lavish hand hath spilled remains, For careful gleaning is to her unknown; From her full hand her ripened seeds are thrown On springing fields late freshened from the the rains, And Hope's clear bugle on the hills is blown By comely lips made moist with fruity stains. Shall we be found less generous to our souls Than are the seasons to the patient earth? Shall we yet choose to drift in mental shoals Where weak-winged fancies only find a birth? Shall we be found more niggard of our store Than are the flame-crowned princes of the wood, While at our heart's inhospitable door A brother faints for some withholden good? The richest gifts of Nature kept unshared Like fruits ungathered, shrivel into blight, Which mars the soul's new blossoming; the road Of excellence was by some god prepared So that no souls might win the glorious Save those unweighted by that hindering load. OCTOBER DAYS. (From "Shadow Brook," in "Wonder Book.") 'HE sun was now an hour or two beyond its noontide mark, and filled the great hollow of the valley with its western radiance, so that it seemed to be brimming with mellow light, and to spill it over the surrounding hillsides, like golden wine out of a bowl. It was such a day that you could not help saying of it, "There never was such a day before!" although yesterday was just such a day, and tomorrow will be just such another. Ah, but there are very few of them in a twelvemonth's circle! It is a remarkable peculiarity of these October days that each of them seems to occupy a great deal of space, although the sun rises rather tardily at that season of the year, and goes to bed, as little children ought, at sober six o'clock, or even earlier. We cannot, therefore, call the days long; but they appear, somehow or other, to make up for their shortness by their breadth; and when the cool night comes, we are conscious of having enjoyed a big armful of life, since morning. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. A SONG IN OCTOBER. H, hear ye not a voice that comes a-singing through the trees, Across the mead and down the dell, along the dying breeze? And hear ye not the burden of its melancholy song, Upon the lingering winds of Autumn sadly borne along? "Home, shepherds; home, sheep; Winter cometh near: Wither, flowers; fall, leaves; days will soon be drear." And hear ye not another voice a-sighing o'er the main, Across the surf, along the beach, a monody of pain? near: Oh, tremble while ye listen to its melancholy "Part, lovers; part, maids; Winter cometh song, Upon the lingering winds of Autumn sadly Sleep, kisses; die, love; life will soon be borne along: drear." W. J. HENDERSON. AUTUMNAL SONNET. OW Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed O'er empty fields or upland solitudes, Or grim, wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes, It may be somewhat thus we shall have leave To walk with memory, when distant lies Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. And day by day the dead leaves fall and And in the day, the golden sun hath wrought melt. And night by night the monitory blast True wonders; and the winds of morn and even |