AUTUMN.

Away from the dwellings of careworn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth;
Their light stems thrill to the wild wood strains,
And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne,
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn;
For me I depart to a brighter shore-

Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more.
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,

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And the flowers are not Death's fare you well, farewell MRS. HEMANS, 1793-1835.

AUTUMN.

THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,
And the year

On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.

Come, months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array,-
Follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the year;

The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling.

Come, months, come away;

Put on white, black, and grey;

Let your light sisters play;

Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,

And make her grave green with tear on tear.

H

SHELLEY, 1792-1822.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. THOMAS MOORE, 1780-1852.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
BYRON, 1788-1824.

SPRING.

SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,—
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo.
Spring, the sweet Spring!

THOMAS NASH, about 1600.

THE NIGHTS.

Он, the summer night
Has a smile of light,

As she sits on the sapphire throne;
Whilst the sweet winds load her
With garlands of odour,

From the bud to the rose o'erblown!

But the autumn night
Has a piercing sight,
And a step both strong and free;

And a voice for wonder,

Like the wrath of the thunder,

When he shouts to the stormy sea!

And the winter night
Is all cold and white,
And she singeth a song of pain;
Till the wild bee hummeth,
And the warm spring cometh,
When she dies in a dream of rain!
Oh, the night brings sleep
To the greenwoods deep,

To the birds of the woods its nest;

To care soft hours,

To life new powers,

To the sick and the weary-rest!

B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).

WOLSEY ON HIS FALL.

FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And,-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart new open'd! O! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he fall like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.—

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And,-when I am forgotten, as I shall be;
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,-say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,—
Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

BIRD, BEE, AND BUTTERFLY.

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Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;

And,-Prithee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal

I serv'd my king, He would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616.

BIRD, BEE, AND BUTTERFLY.

BIRD, bee, and butterfly-the favourite three
That meet us ever on our summer path!

And what, with all her forms and hues divine,
Would summer be without them? Though the skies
Were blue, and blue the streams, and fresh the fields,
And beautiful, as now, the waving woods,
And exquisite the flowers; and though the sun
Beam'd from its cloudless throne from day to day,
And, with the breeze and shower, more loveliness
Shed o'er this lovely world; yet all would want
A charm, if those sweet denizens of earth
And air made not the great creation teem
With beauty, grace, and motion! Who would bless
The landscape, if upon his morning walk
He greeted not the feathery nations, perch'd
For love or song, amid the dancing leaves;
Or wantoning in flight from bough to bough,
From field to field: ah! who would bless thee, June,
If silent, songless were the groves,-unheard
The lark in heaven ?-And he who meets the bee
Rifling the bloom, and listless hears his hum,
Incessant ringing through the glowing day;
Or loves not the gay butterfly that swims
Before him in the ardent noon, array'd
In crimson, azure, emerald, and gold;
With more magnificence upon his wing-
His little wing-than ever graced the robe
Gorgeous of royalty-is like the kine

That wander 'mid the flowers which gem the meads,
Unconscious of their beauty.

N. T. CARRINGTON, 1777-1830.