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So comest thou, Winter, finally to doom The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropp'd sprays,
Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb, Her vanishd hopes and aye departed days.
SUMMER Now on hills, rocks, and streams and vales and plains
Full looks the shining day.–Our gardens wear
The gorgeous robes of the consummate year. With laugh and shout and song, stout maids and
swains Heap high the fragrant hay, as through rough lanes
Rings the yet empty wagon.—See in air
Then thy now heap'd and jocund meads shall stand
Smooth, vacant-silent, through th' exulting land As waves thy rival's golden fields, and gay Her reapers throng. She smiles, and binds the
sheaves, Then bends her parting step o'er fallen and rustling leaves.
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. How happily, how happily the flowers die away! Oh, could we but return to earth as easily as they! Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom, Then drop without decrepitude, or pain, into the tomb! The gay and glorious creatures! they neither “toil
nor spin ;" Yet, lo! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in; No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more
bright Than ever brow of eastern queen endiadem'd with
light. The young rejoicing creatures! their pleasures never
. pall; Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to
all ! The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy,
blessed air, Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may
freely share. The happy careless creatures! of time they take no
heed; Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed; Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light
away ; Nor when 't is gone, cry dolefully, “would God that
it were day! And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's
breast; No pain have they in dying-no shrinking from de
cayOh! could we but return to earth as easily as they!
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the
year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows
brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd
leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's The robin and the wren are flown, and from the
shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the
gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that
lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister
hood ? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of
flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good
of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but cold Novem
ber rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones
again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the sum
mer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the
wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn
beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls
the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from
upland, glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still
such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their win
ter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though
all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra
grance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty
died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by
my side : In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest
cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life
so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young
friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
Note.-We have placed the two preceding specimens of foreign and native poetry, on the same subject, together, that the reader may draw a fair como parison between them.
Though young vet sorrowful). I turn my feet
Fills my sad breast: and tired with this vain coil
I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil, And as amid the leaves the evening air
Whispers still melody, I think, ere long,
And mournful phantasies upon me throng:
H. K. WHITE.
TO CONSUMPTION. GENTLY, most gently on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand! Let me decay
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, And softly go to slumber with the dead! And if 'tis true what holy men have said
That strains angelic oft foretell the day Of death to those good men who fall thy prey, 0, let th' aerial music round my bed Dissolving slow in dying symphony
Whisper the solemn warning to my ear:
Ere I depart upon my journey drear;
H. K. WHITE.
EVENING MUSIC OF THE ANGELS. Low warblings, now, and solitary harps, Were heard among the angels, touch'd and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices. Louder as they swellid, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, Mix'd with clear silver sounds, till concord rose Full as the harmony of winds to heaven; Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies To some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening eyes, Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet distance-mellow'd bell, Come, like the echo of his early joys. In every pause, from spirits in mid air, Responsive still were golden viols heard, And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down.