Now the maiden rose is blushing

At the frolic things we say,
While aside her cheek we're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming groves we rustle,
Kissing every bud we pass,-
As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.

Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain,
Till its little breakers foam.

Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
More vividly does appear,
Than at midday unto our eyes
The shining sun is clear.

The shadow of the earth anon

Removes and drawis by,
While in the east, when it is gone,
Appears a clearer sky.

Which soon perceive the little larks,
The lapwing and the snipe,

And time their songs, like Nature's clerks,
O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.

Our hemisphere is polished clean,
And lightened more and more;
While everything is clearly seen,
Which seemed dim before;

Except, the glistening astres bright,
Which all the night were clear,
Offusked with a greater light,
No longer do appear.

The golden globe incontinent
Sets up his shining head,
And o'er the earth and firmament
Displays his beams abread.

For joy the birds with boulden throats
Against his visage sheen

Take up their kindly music notes
In woods and gardens green.

The dew upon the tender crops,

Like pearles white and round, Or like to melted silver drops, Refreshes all the ground.

I

T

HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining:

Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

BRING fresh showers for the thirsty flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,
And then I again dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;

And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
While on the towers of my skyey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder;
It struggles and howls at fits.

Over the earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
'Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain and stream,

The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine surprise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead.
As, on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when the sunset may breathe, from the lit sea

beneath,

Its ardors of rest and love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall,

From the depths of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floo
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the heat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin ro,
The stars peep behind her and peer:
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes and seas,
Like strips of sky fallen through me on high,
And each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape
Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be,

The triumphal arch, through which I march,
With hurricane, fire and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Emeralds on the lowlands where the river flows:

In the pastures sweet and green, kine and sheep repose,
And the glittering dragon-fly like an earth-star glows.
Silver on the broad mere, 'neath the noon-day light,
While the fair-winged shallops skim the waters bright,
And the white clouds in the sky sail in airy flight.
There is brightness in the heavens, freshness in the air,
Ripeness in the teeming earth, richness everywhere,
For the world to-day is filled with all things good and
fair.

Glorious Autumn! well of thee poets sang of old, Gathering round thee luscious fruits, wealth of grain untold,

Decking thee in regal robes of purple and of gold.

We have limners painted thee in thy yellow hair, Matron with thy sun-bronzed brow, thy majestic air, Thy rounded breast, thy broad full waist, thy strong arms brown and bare.

But thou art lovelier by far than poet ever sung,

Or painter with his gorgeous dyes upon the canvas hung,

Most bountiful, most beautiful thy season-mates among.

The murmuring streams, the rustling trees, the dulcet low of herds,

The song of winds, the hum of bees, the melody of birds

God's poets they, that chant thy praise in hymns more grand than words.

The golden morns, the crimson eves, the cloud-sprent blue of skies,

The green of meads, the yellow fields where the rich harvest lies

God's limners they, that paint thy charms with more than artist dyes.

Spring-tide is the year's gay youth-Summer is its prime;

In FAITH we watch the growth of Spring-in HOPE, the summer time;

But yellow Autumn, like God's LOVE showers gifts on every clime.

-John Francis Waller.

M

OON of harvest, herald mild

Of plenty, rustic labor's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam

As soft it trembles o'er the stream,
And gilds the straw-thatched hamlet wide,
Where innocence and peace reside;

Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng,
Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.

Moon of harvest, I do love
O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high

In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon!
Now the night is at her noon.
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,

While around the zephyrs sigh, Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, Ripened by the summer's heat; Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye,

And thinking soon,

Oh, modest moon!

How many a female eye will roam

Along the road,

To see the load,

The last dear load of harvest home.
Storms and tempests, floods and rains,
Stern despoilers of the plains,
Hence away, the season flee,
Foes to light heart jollity;

May no winds careering high,

Drive the clouds along the sky;

But may all nature smile with aspect boon,
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh,

harvest moon!