AUTUMN. BY JOHN KEATS. SEASON of mist and mellow fruitfulness, Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; Who hath not seen thee oft amidst thy store! Thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind; Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Or by a cyder press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies! And full brown lambs bleat loud from hilly bourn; Hedge crickets sing; and now, with treble soft, The redbreast whistles from a garden croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies! London Magazine. 66 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN THE IRISH MELODIES." ERIN! his heart of truth At length is wholly thine, Was spent 'mid "smiles and wine;" And wept to see your lone hope lie So long in Pleasure's bower, fettered in flowery band. The wizard hand that framed, In death, that knew the spell. Beneath his wondrous hand Awaked, delighted, free, From love to liberty! Oh! there be hearts (nor they the worst), Chains, then first with blushes worn; And eyes that darkly frowned, or lightened to a smile. Whether, by lonely stream, Or 'mid the trembling leaves, Wanders my waking dream Of life, that smiles and grieves ; Whether the young, vain hope, that led By him, the sweetest minstrel, trod, And bless the greener rings his fairy feet have traced. Examiner. FRIENDS. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ. FRIEND after friend departs; Beyond the flight of time,— Beyond the reign of death,— Nor life's affections transient fire, There is a world above Where parting is unknown! Formed for the good alone; Thus star by star declines Till all are past away; As morning high and higher shines Το pure and perfect day: Nor sink those stars in empty night, But hide themselves in heaven's own light. Literary Souvenir. BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ. SPIRIT of the lonely scene, On the Pyramids sublime, Towering o'er a thousand graves,— Gleaming high on Greenland's coast, Hoar Winter's diadem, List'st thou to the rending roar And howl of monsters from the shore, Or dost thou rather love to dwell Buried in oblivious gloom, Whose tower hath crumbled from the skies Into a desert tomb! From thy deep and dread repose, 'Midst primeval, starless Night, To restore thine ancient reign, Literary Souvenir. THE CYPRESS TREE. A slender tree upon a height in lonely beauty towers, I've thought of Oriental tombs, of silent cities, where And thought, beneath the evening star, how many a maiden crept I've thought, thou lonely cypress tree, thou hermit of the grove, How many a heart, alas! is doomed forlorn on earth to rove; When all that charmed the morn of life, and cheered the youthful mind, Have like the sunbeams passed away, and left but clouds behind! Thou wert a token unto me, thou stem with dreary leaf, A few short years shall swiftly glide, and then thy boughs shall wave, When tempests beat, and breezes sigh, above my silent grave! Blackwood's Magazine. A |